Butterfly Wings
by Lucy Hale
Summary: Based on the idea that one tiny shift in the world can cause repercussions. This is a slash story following LotR where one feeling from one small hobbit alters a man's life and death.
1. Chapter 1

Boromir fascinated Merry. He was only the second man Merry had ever known, really, and so Merry couldn't say at first if his fascination was with the new race being introduced to him, or for Boromir in particular.

He wasn't so fascinated by Aragorn, and maybe that was one sign. Frodo was fascinated enough for any five hobbits, though, so it seemed fair. In fact, Frodo's fascination led to Merry's own - Frodo and through him Sam spent so much time with the solemn, grim Ranger that Merry and Pippin were left to their own devices often, with much time to talk to the newcomers and get to know them.

Gimli and Legolas, it seemed, were happy to fight with each other. Gandalf joined the solemn and history-laden talks Aragorn and Frodo had. Occasionally Legolas would go off to be an elf, wandering through trees and getting to know shrubs and things of that sort. But oftentimes it was just Merry, Pippin, and the man of Gondor.

Where Strider was grim, Boromir was stern but fair. Aragorn was lost in history, and Boromir was very much in the present. Aragorn spoke so often of elves and sung in their own tongue so often that he seemed as if he ought to be half-elf himself.

Boromir, on the other hand, was very much a man. He spoke of men, of his land and people, with pride and love. He spoke of their faults and their greatest deeds with equal devotion. He was very much a product of his land, which Merry understood. He had no doubt, after all, that he and his fellow hobbits were only so uncomplicated and unlearned because the Shire allowed them to be.

Boromir would tell them tales of the White City that made Merry's eyes glow in wonder. The towers, gleaming in the sunlight. The trumpets that always called him home. Seven levels, each containing wonders and oddments of their own, all fitting together into what Boromir thought as the perfect city.

He spoke of his family as well. His father, stern and cool and proud. Boromir admitted to them with a wry smile that he was very much his father's son. Yet his father had a special kind of blood in him - the line of the men of the north was strong in him. In that Boromir different. He was like to men of Gondor, not to Numenoreans. He was not that great.

Merry had replied that if he was an example of a man who was less than great, he'd hate to meet with any great ones. He'd be so awed he'd go stupid.

Boromir laughed at that.

Merry liked to make him laugh.

He went on, saying that though he had not inherited that old and wise blood of his father's, his brother had. His brother, Faramir. Boromir spoke of him often, sharing tales of them as children, learning together, sparring together. Growing apart in many ways and yet always close to each other in spirit and devotion.

"Faramir alone will tell me things no man dares say. He will tell me when I am being unreasonable, when I am stupid and stubborn. He alone will tell me, and he alone has opinions that I trust."

"He sounds like a great man himself," Merry said as Pippin snored beside him, lulled into sleep during this, one of the few breaks in their long and slow march.

"He is." Boromir sat proudly, casting his gaze towards the east. "He should have come on this journey, I think. He is better suited, but I would not have him go. Nor would father."

"Why not? Do you suppose it will be particularly dangerous?"

Boromir looked back at him with a smile. "Particularly? All paths are dangerous these dark days, my little friend. There are no particular paths more or less dangerous. But the path they seem intent to set you on eventually..." He trailed off and sighed.

Merry held him out another strip of the cured meat they had been snacking on.

Boromir took it with a nod. "Rest now."

Merry smiled and laid down near to the fire, beside his snoring cousin. He looked up again before he had chance to drift too far away, and for a moment he simply studied the man, sitting so stern in the darkness, but looking so warm in the fire's glow. "Someday I'd like to see it. Your city."

Boromir looked up, and after a moment he nodded. "You will, I think."

"Will you show me those things you talked about? The courtyard and the tree and everything?"

Boromir's smile faded, and he looked into the flames. "Should I return, it will be my honor, master halfling."

Merry smiled and laid down. And only moments before sleep claimed him he felt a shiver in his bones. _'Should I return..."_


	2. Chapter 2

One time Boromir tried to explain some of the rigors of high society with Merry. Pippin was off listening to one of Gimli's stories of dark mountains, wide eyed and eager though Gandalf warned him they'd face similar perils soon enough and he ought not act as if it was something to look forward to. And Merry and Boromir were left to their own, talking quietly.

It was in a space between their talks that Merry took the time to realize how odd it was that such a great man from such a great city would spend so much time in conversation with a silly halfling - not even the ring bearer, just one of the companions. But as they talked he acted as if they were equals sharing stories.

Boromir explained about kings and stewards, and how his father and their family had ruled the country for many years, yet were not kings and would never be.

"Well, why not?" Merry asked in return. "Why shouldn't he be? I mean, if he's the one ruling, what does it matter what title you call him by?"

Boromir's eyes went to Aragorn, off in the distance huddled with Gandalf, casting dark, grim glances to the east. "I used to ask that myself, often. I have never yet received an answer that convinced me it was right. My father holds to the honor of the stewardship, though. He considers it an honor to be a gatekeeper until the real ruler returns." He hesitated, casting another look at Aragorn. "Although..."

Merry waited. "Although?" he encouraged, tugging lightly at Boromir's sleeve to regain his attention.

Boromir turned back and looked down at him, almost as if shaken from a sudden nap. He paused, and something in his gaze felt prying to Merry, searching and invasive, but not unwelcome. "I suppose these are just stories to you. Just another group of folk tales to add to a collection. You'll be the first in your own home that's heard them, no doubt. Good for many a free drink."

Merry laughed at that, and he only felt the warmer when his laughter made Boromir smile. "Well, you've planted the idea in my head, thank you. Though I think whether you talk to me or not I'll have many new tales to tell when we get back to our Shire." He took a bite of the cooked meat Aragorn had made up for dinner that evening. He was just filling up the corners after a good meal, but he'd been filling them for an hour perhaps. He wondered how that must look to a grim, strong man who ate so little. "We've a great fondness for food ourselves, and for tales. But that doesn't make our interest insincere at all."

Boromir bowed his head. "My apologies."

Merry smiled. "Don't apologies, tell me your although."

"My what?"

Merry sat back, gazing. "You said your father considered his being just a steward an honor, but there was an although."

Boromir smiled slowly. "My apologies again. I'd half thought you were paying the substance of my words little mind." He studied the hobbit suddenly. "If you're truly interested, I'll tell you, though it's not something I speak of often. Never before, in fact, except to my own brother."

Merry leaned in, fascinated. "Well, I'm interested, so go on."

Boromir smiled, but it was distant and it faded fast. "My father says that he is honored to be a placeholder for the real king. But I am very sure that he says it because Gondor has long given up on the hope that any king will return."

Merry blinked. That was no great although, but he nodded after a moment. "You think that once he hears that Strider's come to claim the throne your father will refuse?"

Boromir nodded. "I don't think ill of my father, you must understand. I never speak ill of him, except the ill that might be implied in this. But he is proud, and he has ruled. A proud man with power will chafe to give it up, though he may say honorable words about doing so."

Merry smiled at that. He loved listening to the man talk. The rhythm of it, and the words he used. He spoke grandly like all men seemed to, not plain and simple like a hobbit. But his grandness felt more near, more approachable. Even Strider at his dirtiest Ranger moments had something in his manner and speech that put him above others. Rather like Gandalf himself, Merry thought sometimes. He would have thought all men were like the wizard but for Boromir.

"My brother." Boromir spoke suddenly, as if now he was started talking of his home the words would trail out until he'd said it all. "Of the men in my family, Faramir is the only one I think would serve as a proper steward. If the king does return, in this lifetime..." Another sidelong glance towards Aragorn. "My father will resist, and I think that in his place I would as well. I am too proud; I am too much like him. Faramir has our father's wisdom, but little of his pride. Perhaps more wisdom for that, in fact."

Merry could see the glimmer in his eyes, when he spoke of his home but more when he spoke of his brother. "I hope I get to meet him one day," he said in answer. "He sounds like too high a person for me, but maybe he'd take after his brother and be kind and talk to a silly young hobbit for a while."

Boromir looked at him, his brow creased, something like amazement in his face. Then he laughed, a low rumble loud enough to attract attention from the nearest company. He spoke, sounding suddenly boisterous. "Wise the men of Gondor may be, but we've found our betters in politeness." He smiled at Merry, and it seemed to brighten his entire face. The grimness for a moment was erased, the lines of care around his eyes smoothing out.

He seemed young, suddenly, happy - the way Merry might have pictured a young lord from a grand city of men. He seemed to be lightened entirely, and no matter how long or how short the effect lasted Merry was dazed by it, and felt heated tendrils of selfish joy that he had been the one to cause it.


	3. Chapter 3

In the dark of Moria Boromir was called to bring up the rear of the group for a time, and Merry would have missed his company with surprising strength if it wasn't that he found himself walking with his cousins and Sam, reunited once more, the four of them.

"Well," he said quietly in the dimness when he realized this was their first time walking together in many long days. "What do you think, then?"

Pippin looked at him, his eyes and the shape of his face barely visible in the dimness coming back to them from Gandalf's light. "What do you mean? I think it's very dark and very miserable in here, but surely you didn't have to ask to know I felt that."

Merry grinned, finding it hard to let the dark dampen his spirits. "No. I mean, about all this. Our fellowship. " Boromir. He wanted to ask Pippin, and didn't know why. What did they think of the kind, strong man who had carried him and Pippin through the frozen ice of malicious snows only days before.

Even in the dark he remembered the sheer strength of the large hand that grasped him to hold him up. How big was that hand, he thought, and the thought caused an odd feeling of sudden melancholy.

Fortunately Sam interrupted his thoughts. "I'll tell you what I think," he said in a whisper, his words directed at Frodo as they always were. "I think it's as fine a group of people as we could hope to have met anywhere, and if it wasn't that I belong at the side of my master I'd say I have no business even being here."

Frodo laughed his fond, gentle, always for Sam laugh. "They are the best the other races of Middle Earth have to offer, and why should you think the representatives from the Shire should be any less so? You didn't stumble into this, Sam. None of you did. None of us, I should say. There's a pattern to all of it, or so Gandalf has told me. Things have been set into motion by stronger powers that hobbits."

"True enough," Pippin answered, sounding more cheerful than he had. "Though Elrond was against Merry and I coming at the least. I wonder if the two of us have foiled fate? And even if higher powers want us here, what would they want us for? One elf, one dwarf, two men, and four hobbits?"

Merry smiled, feeling much less uncertain of why he was there. "Maybe because it takes four of us to equal the two men in size."

The others laughed quietly.

Merry glanced back in the darkness as they walked, but behind Gimli's stout and dark form, Boromir was outside of the light and couldn't be seen. Still, Merry though maybe Boromir could see them, if he was looking ahead, and he smiled out at him in that hope.

It was much later that day when Gandalf gave the short legs of the poor hobbits a rest and let them sit for a while. Legolas was gathering food from the packs to be handed out, and Gimli had wandered beyond the borders of Gandalf's light to...well, Merry wasn't sure. Sing to the stones, or whatever it was dwarves did in caves.

Pippin had fallen fast asleep, and Sam and Frodo sat together silently. Sam's eyes were on his master, Frodo's were on the huddled conference of Gandalf and Aragorn.

Merry was free to go where he wanted, and he drifted like steam being pulled to the lure of a spinning fan straight to where Boromir sat, his eyes shut, his back resting against cold stone.

He sat, though Boromir looked to be sleeping. He took the opportunity to study the man in fascination. So large, even larger than Aragorn. His shirt alone would be passed around as a marvel in the Shire, set up as a tent to hold birthday parties under. He chuckled, mind on the image of Bilbo's last grand birthday, and two heavy, tree-sized sleeves hanging from some large shirt serving as tent.

When he looked to Boromir's face the man's eyes were open and fixed on him, and there was a smile on his face. "Are you mocking my sleep, master hobbit? Perhaps you wonder that the great man of Gondor needs to rest now and again."

Merry laughed, low and musical. "No, no. I was wondering how many hobbits would fit into your clothes. I think you could pack the four of us in and still have room for another."

Boromir laughed, looking down himself as if pondering the idea. "I shouldn't think so. Two perhaps might be enough. Though if we were talking about my boots and not my shirt I think mine wouldn't be large enough for the smallest of you."

Merry's legs were stretched in front of him, and his large, hairy feet bumped together as he regarded them. "The size might be off, but that's fitting. After all, none I think are fit to walk in the boots of Boromir, great man of Gondor."

Another low chuckle, and Boromir shifted to face him. "When I refer to myself as great it is usually in jest, though I'm worthy enough. You ought to be less kind or I'll start to believe the words when I speak them."

"Less kind? I didn't realize it was kindness. All men seem great to me. Probably to all of us hobbits, for we don't know men and so far they're all great enough at least to cause cricks in our necks from staring up at them."

"Master Merry," Boromir said through a chuckle. "You do cheer up the darkness of this miserable place."

Merry smiled, feeling as if he must be glowing. His own name, spoken in that low voice through the tremor of laughter. It was magical, he thought. More than the elf enchantments in the tales Aragorn told and Sam was so amazed by. Magic of a different sort, earthy and mortal and not even a little worse because it wasn't lofty.

Pippin looked up with a snuffle when Merry finally moved back to sleep before his watch later that night. Peering through one half-cocked eye, the young hobbit flashed a tired smile as Merry lay beside him. "Are you done entertaining big folk, then?"

Merry grinned and curled in close to Pippin in the chill darkness of Moria. "For now, I suppose."

Pippin welcomed him closer, tugging at his arm to wrap his hands around as if Merry was a living stove he could warm himself on. "You're very fond of him, aren't you? Boromir?"

Merry's eyes opened and he looked across at his cousin, who despite having eyes shut and face slack still managed to look mischievous. Merry hesitated, then sighed. "I am. He's been very kind."

"And very fair, and very strong," Pippin added, this time unable to keep from grinning. An eye opened to look at Merry.

Merry smiled at him, knowing that though Pip spoke lightly about it with Merry, he'd never speak of it to anyone else. "I don't think I've met a more fascinating person than him, not in any of the races we now know."

"Really?" Pippin's eyes opened fully, and his smile faded. "Merry, you've got that look on your face. That look Sam gets when he watches Rosie out with her brothers."

Merry blushed and buried his face against Pippin's shoulder.

Pip sighed a moment later, and Merry warmed to feel fingers petting through his curly hair. "My poor Merry. Never happy to love anyone he ought to, even though he loves as many as he can."

Merry chuckled at that, remembering long nights of foolish young boasts about kissing girls and dancing and courting and all the other things he enjoyed in the Shire so much. "That's different. That's like playacting. This is...well, it's just fascination."

Pippin lay back at that. "Don't get your heart broken, no matter what it is. He's a Big Person, and a man, and you know nothing about him."

Merry thought about all he knew - a youth growing up with a doting little brother and a distant but strong father, playing and running among seven levels of a glimmering white city, training, fighting, admiring his brother, scared (or so Merry thought) of his father. He didn't feel like he knew nothing. He felt like he knew just enough to make him want to know every other thing that could be learned.

Still, he told himself as Pippin's breathing deepened back into sleep. Pip was right. Boromir was a man, and he hadn't heard anything about men's ways of looking at love. Were there kissing-friends, as young hobbits had? Was it alright for a boy to be with another boy? It wasn't in some parts of the Shire, and in some families it was a terror. He wondered how he might ask Boromir without sounding as if he had something in mind.

Of course, even if Boromir didn't mind his fascination, or his being a boy hobbit...he was still a hobbit. A child in appearance to these men. Foolish and strange.

He wondered, but as he drifted into sleep he heard Boromir's rich voice and rumbling chuckle, and he thought of how his own name had sounded coming from the man's mouth, and he decided to think about that instead.

Wondering was far too draining anyway.


	4. Chapter 4

Merry had never minded being small and unimportant. He was one small member of a very large family back home, and since coming on this trip he'd been overlooked by nearly everyone at one time or another.

As he stared, wide-eyed, at the golden-haired elf lady who was talking to Frodo and Legolas and Gimli and all, he was glad she hadn't given him more than a quick glance before. Her eyes were old, and he was disconcerted by it.

Beside him Pippin was twitching, looking in all different directions at the trees and boughs and the silver-haired elf lord and the lady herself. Merry felt the wonder but felt removed from it, as if he was just imagining himself in a tale Pippin was telling.

They spoke of Gandalf, and Moria, and the journey, and Merry listened but didn't hear. His attention wandered, and the journey itself seemed already far away. He wished suddenly that it was over, but there wasn't much chance of that. Still, how nice would it be to stay here in these woods for a time, to get to know his new companions in friendship instead of hardship. To get to know...

Foolishness.

Then again, he was quite good at foolishness. Fond of it as well, most of the time. He wondered that part of him was sad about it.

Maybe he was just growing up on this trip, finally, as his parents wished he'd grown up when he'd come of age.

He sighed to himself, and Pippin sent him a wide-eyed stare of wonder. He saw that wonder and knew it was not echoed in his own face. Indeed, Pippin blinked at him and his brow furrowed, silent question in his eyes.

But then the lady, Galadriel, spoke again. This time she looked at them all again in turn, taking them in as she addressed them. "Your quest stands on the edge of a knife. Stray but a little and it will fail, to the ruin of all."

Merry followed her gaze at the end as she locked eyes with Frodo, who looked away after a moment. Then Sam, who almost instantly blushed and took a small step back. She went down the line in turn, looking at them all, and Merry's apprehension grew. He watched Boromir as her eyes held his. The man stood for a moment still, then straightened where he stood. Pride was in his eyes , and a sort of defiance. Sadness, too, Merry though, but buried beneath the rest.

Pippin breathed in when she looked at him, and his cheeks went pink with a blush.

Then her eyes found Merry, and he found himself looking without conscious will. There were those depthless eyes; that old, wise, sad and strange gaze. He found his mind cleared suddenly, and he knew with a conviction as strong as anything that if he turned back now he would have the Shire, and his cousin, and a hole away from great numbers of wearisome family. And then an image came to his mind, of seeing the White City in peace, of being shown the secrets of the seven levels by a smiling, carefree Boromir.

Then further images came, of fondness and friendship and then a feeling even stronger.

He blinked suddenly, and tore his eyes away, and knew only the blink of an eye had passed since he looked at her. His hands clenched into fists, and he wished for a moment, fervent, that it would come true. But Frodo was there at the other end of the line, and the Fellowship wasn't at their homes, and the White City Boromir loved wasn't at peace. He knew things had to go on, and he knew he would go on with them.

Her eyes, for a moment, changed and became gentle, and then she looked away to Aragorn, and he sighed and his shoulders slumped. Pippin took his hand and squeezed it, but Merry didn't look at him.

His face, he could feel, was red and burning, and though the happy images were cruel he wanted them back.

He couldn't speak of it later, when they had time away from the watch of elves to speak about what had happened. He started to, in conversation, but remembered himself and stopped. He couldn't dare speak of it to Boromir, who would think him silly, and he didn't think the other hobbits would understand.

He didn't really understand himself.

Boromir was unhappy about the whole thing, but speaking of it seemed to anger Gimli and Legolas, so their conversation turned to other things.

But Merry found him later, drawn as always to his side. Boromir sat distant from singing elves and the others in the Fellowship, and Merry approached uncertainly. "Do you wish silence?"

Boromir smiled, though it seemed dim. "No, my friend. Join me."

Merry warmed and obeyed, sitting beside him against the hard but smooth trunk of the silver tree the path was built beside. "It's an odd place, isn't it?"

Boromir looked out at the paths and houses beyond, and didn't reply.

Merry followed his gaze. "It's very sad. Very humbling, as well. At least to me."

"Humbling." Boromir repeated the word quietly. "Yet why should it be? Perhaps the cities of men and halflings aren't as grand as this, yet are they not things to be proud of as well? Why should any man wish to roam in the trees of another race when he has walls and roads and buildings of his own?"

Merry hesitated. "You're thinking about Strider, aren't you? I mean, Aragorn."

Boromir turned to him then. "You surprise me, Merry. You're inside my thoughts, it seems at times. I've thought about him much since we arrived here. He is the heir to the throne of my city. A man descended from the mightiest race of men who have yet lived. Even the humblest man should be proud of his race, and he comes from the greatest. Yet when he is here, amid these people, he is content to speak as they do and tell their stories and pay homage to them. I don't understand it, and it's not to my liking."

"Why not?" Merry watched in the distance as two very different figures, a tall slender elf and a stout, heavy dwarf, took to the trees. The elf gestured grandly with graceful arms, and the dwarf watched with doubt. "Should it matter what race you are, then?"

"Don't mistake me, Merry. I know these lands are wonderful. I am lucky to be here, and when I return to my own home my brother will envy me. There was grandeur in Moria, and there is beauty here different than any I have ever seen. To love something is good. Losing yourself in it can be quite another story."

"Do you think Aragorn loses himself in the elves?"

"I think at times he would wish to." Boromir frowned. "It troubles me that he speaks so distrustfully of our own people, the men of Gondor, of Rohan. He doesn't trust us to help in this quest, yet he would give over to an elf without question. Is this how the future king of my land should behave?"

Merry fell silent for a time, watching the two friends in the distance move out of sight through the trees. They were an odd match, those two - oddest that could have been made from the company. But Merry thought it was in their differences that the found so much to fascinate them about the other. "I don't know much about Strider, I'm afraid. When we first met him we feared he was a thief or an enemy, and the history of his race doesn't mean much to hobbits walking the fields of the Shire. I know my own cousin Frodo is very trusting of the elves - more than any other race, I think. Sam is of course in awe of them entirely. But their wish is to know more, to be among the elves, not to become elvish themselves."

"Perhaps." Boromir smiled faintly. "You do seem a very contented race."

"We are, for the most part."

Boromir looked at him suddenly, and his gaze was felt so strongly that Merry looked from the trees to him, and for a moment met those burning eyes and was dazed. "Tell me, Merry. What did the lady offer to you? What could tempt a hobbit, so contented with things as they are?"

Merry blushed instantly, but couldn't bring himself to look away. "Just that. Contentment. Peace beyond what we already know. I can't speak for the others, but I saw...I saw a future happiness I have much wished for lately."

"And what happiness is that?"

He did look away then, down at his fingers fidgeting on his lap. So small next to the large hand of Boromir laying flat against his thigh. "Nothing more than anyone else would wish. A home and love and never a lack of food to eat."

"Ah."

"And you?" He asked fast, both from a desire to know and a chance to get the attention off of his silly dreams of the future. "What made you straighten so and regard her with such pride?"

Boromir hesitated. "You were watching me."

Merry spoke quietly. "I often do."

Boromir regarded him, and after a moment answered. "I looked with pride because I recognized the challenge as what it was. The men of Gondor can face any test of will, and though we are less subtle in our dealings we can stand up to the subtlety of others. As to what I saw for myself...peace for my land. No more dying soldiers. My family safe."

"But what for yourself?"

"That would be a better gift for me than any amount of gold given to just Boromir, son of the steward. My city and my people are everything, Merry. Perhaps I will find what you wished for one day. A family of my own, sons raised to lead the future armies of the White City. But those are not high in my thoughts. They have never been."

Merry nodded, and fell quiet. He was suddenly, deeply ashamed of his own selfish, tiny, unimportant desires. Such a man as this...could there be many in the world? A man like this was unreachable by petty fondness or desire. He was a man to be admired, to be followed. Not to be stared at and lusted after like some barmaid.

They were quiet after that, sitting together watching the shadows of elves move about the trees.


	5. Chapter 5

"Merry, why should a place as lovely as this make you fall into such a sadness?"

Merry looked up, startled, and for a moment his eyes couldn't shake the glare of the fire he'd been watching for so long.

Pippin regarded him, his gaze puzzled. "You bore the darkness of Moria and cheered me when I thought we'd never see sunlight again. You held me up after...after _he_ fell. And yet we're here, finally able to rest and feel safe, and now you look as if you'd give anything to be another place entirely. And don't you go putting me off, telling me I'm imagining things. Fool of a Took I might have been dubbed, but when it comes to Meriadoc I am as learned as any schoolmaster."

Merry smiled at that, at the stubbornness in Pippin's face. "I don't want to tell you that. Sit down and stop glaring at me, Pip."

And Pippin sat, looking at him in interest. "You're going to tell me, then?"

"Tell you what? I know I'm suddenly melancholy, and I agree with you that it's wrong to be so in this place. But there's nothing to tell. I don't know why I feel so sad. Except I have a feeling that my mind is simply too small to grasp the full measure of what's happening. I feel small, Pippin. And I don't mean in size. I mean in will and in thought. I feel like I don't belong among these people. I hardly belong in the same world as them, much less the same quest."

"Merry, that's ridiculous. You're not part of this to think grand thoughts and plan for the future of the earth. We're both of us here to help our cousin. That's all we ever wanted to do."

He nodded after a moment. "But we should want more. Even if we began to help Frodo and keep the Shire safe, shouldn't we be concerned with bigger things now? Should we be warriors, since there are no others here from the Shire to serve? Shouldn't we be bent with the care that Gandalf had for the future of every race? "

"No. That's what Gandalf was here for. If someone's got to be bent double by care than he served. Now he is gone Aragorn is taking it on himself. How many times have we heard from different people that the silly carelessness of the Shire was protected and made that way for a reason? Silly people lighten the hearts of the important, and if that's our sole purpose here than it's a good purpose, and we should be happy to do it."

"And what if we wish to be important ourselves?"

Pip laughed. "I know that's not your problem, Merry. You're important enough to a lot of people, and you well know it. Maybe you think if you were different than you were you'd be important to someone new, though."

Merry looked up at him at that and for a moment studied his younger cousin.

Pip laughed. "Come, Merry, you're terrible at secrets. And I know your looks too well not to know when you're being moon-eyed over someone. I have to admit it's no one I would have expected, but all this talk about importance makes it clear enough."

He sighed and studied the fire again, hearing the low murmur of talking above them, on the paths in the trees. He spoke quietly enough that only his cousin might here, and even that wasn't certain. "Do you think I'm so ridiculous?"

"Well." Pippin spoke quietly as well, if not in Merry's hushed whisper. "Yes, I do, but that's gone on for years. Regarding this matter, I hope you might recover your wits soon. It isn't that it's ridiculous, you understand. It's just that it's very unlikely that we'll all come out of this matter alive, and I would hate to think you spent the journey upsetting yourself over something like this. Over anything, really, but especially over this. He's a very great person, but it's becoming more obvious that his path doesn't lie with us. He wants to go home to his city, and he'll leave us to take our parts where we can."

Merry nodded silently. There was nothing in that that he didn't know. He knew it in his mind, but there was really no getting through to the other parts of him. "I suppose hope doesn't limit itself to what's likely, though. And also not with what's sensible, or even possible. How does a person stop himself hoping for something?"

"I wish I knew, for I'd tell you right here and now if I did and I'd see you smile again as you ought to in a magical sort of place like this."

Merry smiled obediently, and it was sincere in the face of his cousin's concern. Pip wasn't one to worry, and it was rather touching, really, that he was so worried now. Especially when there were so many bigger things to worry about.

"Do you know what I think?" Pip asked suddenly, studying Merry's face with a careful scrutiny. "I think that if we ever get through this entire mess alive, and we come through the darkness and get to see Gondor one day...I think you ought to make a go of it. See if you can't maybe attract the interest of your strong Gondorian friend. It's not in me to ever think there's a soul out there with the power to resist the most charming and fair hobbit I know."

Merry laughed quietly, gratitude in his eyes. "Pip, you're..."

Behind him, there was a soft clearing of a throat.

Merry wasn't sure if a person could really recognize a particular voice clearing, but he did. And he shut his eyes for a moment and felt a burning in his stomach.

Pip looked up in surprise, and his eyes went round and wide, magnified against his face in the glow of the fire. "Oh."

Merry's fears were confirmed and he let out a slow breath, tense but completely unwilling to turn around.

Pip's eyes went to him, apologetic and nervous, and he leapt to his feet instantly. "Well then, I see better people than me have come to keep you company. I've got to go accompany Sam on a walk anyway. I did promise, and..." He gave up, meeting Merry's eyes for a moment before darting out into the darkness.

Merry had to clench his teeth and fight the urge to fly into the safety of evening behind his cousin. "I don't suppose my luck is with me tonight. Have you been there long?"

"Only a moment," came the quiet, low rumble of a response. "I do not eavesdrop, master hobbit. It's dishonest."

"You may as well sit and warm yourself," Merry answered hesitantly. It was hard speaking to his friend without looking at him, but since he was apparently frozen solid where he sat, it was for Boromir to come round to him.

"I don't think that's a very good idea."

Merry felt himself crumble just a little bit, slumping where he sat, head bowing, back curling. As if he'd just been melted, just a tiny bit, just enough for a subtle reshaping. "Oh."

And then his frozen body obeyed an unthought wish, and he rose to his feet and moved into the darkness, away from the fire without ever once turning to look at the man behind him. He didn't follow Pip, just set out into the cool evening and wondered if he hadn't better simply keep going right back to the Shire.

Boromir didn't try to stop him.

When Merry fell asleep that night it was far away from his party, sitting against a tree in a small courtyard fully dressed. At one point he felt himself being lifted, and opened his eyes to see kind elf eyes looking out ahead as he was carried. He was asleep again before he was set down, but he woke up with the warm and comforting body of his cousin wrapped tightly around him, better than any blanket.


	6. Chapter 6

Their time in Lorien was drawing short. It was in the air. They'd had many nights rest there, but none of them were able to forget why they were traveling, and talks turned more and more to starting out again and where to go from there.

He was silent during those talks, but then he always had been. He didn't know enough to direct the party, and it was understood that he and Pip would go where Frodo went. But he listened, though his eyes stayed normally on the ground and away from everyone around him. He heard Boromir argue passionately for returning home - that would be his course no matter what, but he wanted badly for the company to go along, to trust him that Gondor would prove as much a place of rest as Lorien.

But just as heatedly Strider argued against that, and talk dissolved into argument and Boromir's temper flared quicker these days. One evening in particular he grew infuriated that Aragorn would not even consider his idea, and he stormed away from them in a rage.

Merry felt safe to lift his eyes up then, and caught the bewildered looks of the rest of the company. "He is too proud," offered Legolas after a pause.

"Proud, but not unwise. Not unreasonable." Strider was looking out after him, his eyes troubled. "There is something bothering him."

"Bet I can guess what that is," said, of all people, Sam, sitting at his master's side and glowering darkly. Frodo leaned over and shushed him.

Strider's eyes went to Merry suddenly, and he looked at him for a long moment before looking away. "The cause doesn't matter. It's clear that we're going to lose one member of our fellowship at least very soon after we leave here. The choice still lies on the rest of us."

"And it won't be made tonight, that's clear," grumbled Gimli. "I think we will have to be at the very fork in the road before this choice gets decided."

Aragorn nodded at that with a wry smile. "That's very possible. But his eyes went out after Boromir and darkened again, and he fell silent.

Merry wasn't sure what he thought, but he knew whatever was troubling Boromir was no cause of his. He had been overheard dreaming impossible dreams, and though they may have bothered the man, they wouldn't have driven him to that sort of rage. This was bigger, but he imagined he hadn't helped settle Boromir's mood. He imagined if he were a responsible and brave hobbit he would find the man and talk to him until they were both clear on how his words were simply a flight of fancy and nothing more. But he wasn't brave, not for this, and he would rather never face Boromir's gaze again than face it and see disliking or disgust there.

But bravery wasn't needed in the end, anyway, because as Merry walked a slow path in and out of trees, listening to the low, clear songs of the elves above and thinking about leaving again, he was stopped by a figure in his path. And when he looked up it was Boromir he saw.

The man's eyes were dark and troubled, even in the shadowed light of day. He stood there, obviously to stop Merry but for a long moment he did and said nothing at all.

Merry drew in a breath and forced his eyes not to drop away. "Something's bothering you," he said quietly. "Something more."

Boromir moved then. "May I walk with you for a while?"

A flash of hope, cruel, was quickly stomped down. This was bigger than him, Merry knew. He couldn't stay so focused on himself. "Of course."

They walked, in silence for a few minutes, but Boromir spoke again before Merry expected it. "There is a rumbling in my mind, Merry. I don't understand it, except to know that it's something to be fought. It grows stronger, though, as we stay here."

Merry nodded. "I can tell. I think the others can to. At least they know there is something more to your words and your anger than pride in your home."

"Something more." He nodded. "I have had dreams, as vivid as I have ever dreamed, showing me the two roads this may take. The ring in Gondor or the ring somewhere else. I see my city ruined beyond hope, and I see it flourish and rise to even higher glory than in older days. My mind would tell me that without the ring my city is without even a breath of hope. But when I wake my mind isn't so sure. There are tricks in the air here, and the lady hadn't stopped her testing of my heart for even a moment."

"I don't think it's the lady," Merry answered thoughtfully. "I think it's you. She hasn't been testing the rest of us, but the visions she showed us follow us in different ways."

There was silence at that. Then, "What did your visions show you? You were vague before. Do I guess right that it was the lady and her tricks that led to the words I overheard by the fire days ago?"

"No." Merry spoke quietly, looking carefully at the path ahead but always strongly aware of the large presence beside him. "I mean, yes, in a way. She had shown me things, but not things she put into my head. Things she found there and made clearer."

Another silence. "Merry."

He shook his head, his eyes burning. "Please. We don't have to talk about it. I know everything you'll say, and I've always known it. If you had never overheard us you never would have known. No matter what my cousin encouraged or how our paths crossed in the future."

"I prefer knowing," Boromir answered softly. "We like hard honesty where I came from, and the truth never scares us."

"Not even an ugly truth?"

Boromir stopped suddenly, turning to look down at Merry. "I consider there to be very few ugly truths in the world. The enemy in the east is one. The idea that my men are dying in battle even now while I idle in the woods with elves is another. But I've heard nothing from your mouth that I would call ugly."

"Unpleasant, then. Impossible, Ridiculous. There are other words for what I mean." Still, Merry was relieved a bit to know he hadn't become twisted in Boromir's eyes.

"Impossible, perhaps," Boromir replied with a slow nod. He moved then, crouching to put himself at eye level with Merry. He reached out slowly, taking hold of one of Merry's hands in his and simply holding it up, looking at it. "You are so very small, Merry. A child in our eyes, so you've been told before. Even if there was no war, no future, no armies clashing and fates leading us all into different paths, you..."

"I'm small," Merry replied slowly, breathless with Boromir's hand on him and yet downcast thanks to his words. "I can imagine that must be odd."

"So very different," Boromir said, looking at Merry carefully. "Understand; I am incredibly fond of you. More than all others in our company, and more than I should have thought I'd be with anyone met out here in the wild. You have made my heart at times feel as light as if I were just a child myself. Even in the darkest times. You are brave, Merry - I've seen you fight now, and it made me proud to watch you, I think we would have grown to be great friends had we met outside this journey. An odder pair wouldn't have been seen anywhere."

"Please." Merry looked away at that, finding Boromir's kindness and his sincerity more painful than he would have guessed. "I don't need to here the whys and whynots. You may love honesty but at times I find it hard. Too hard to bear."

Boromir reached out then with his other hand, and large, warm fingers pushed at Merry's chin to lift his face up. He held his breath and looked back at Boromir, closer than he'd ever been to him before.

Boromir searched his eyes, and something sad glimmered over his features. "I had never really considered a future for myself outside of my position. One day I would have been Steward, and I would have wed a woman and bore more Stewards. I've never had occasion to think of love. I never knew the love of any woman, even my mother." He hesitated, then nodded behind Merry to the trees behind the path. "Come sit with me?"

Merry followed automatically, trailing behind him and touching his chin with fingers that felt especially sensitive.

Behind the line of trees Boromir sat, and Merry sat beside. Before there was a chance of losing his line of thought, Boromir took Merry by the hand again and spoke. "Soldiers will often seek each other for pleasure when there's no other choice to be had. We don't find that to be distasteful, if you were fearing so. In fact I very much doubt the too-gentle ministrations of a woman would feel as good to a man like me."

"Why are you telling me this?" Merry's voice sounded rough and ground up as he spoke. "Hope can be a meaner gift than honesty."

"Yes," Boromir sighed and released his hand. "It can. Even hope shared."

"Don't say things like that!" Merry looked at him evenly then, growing hot and nervous and angry. "This hope isn't shared, unless by Pippin who would hope for it just to make me happy. I'm small, so you said. Different. You don't hope anything about me,"

"I hope to have my friend back," he answered quietly. "My mind is unsettled and I need him to help me through it."

Merry's anger faded and he leaned in, placing the small hand he was suddenly so aware of onto Boromir's arm. "But you don't have to worry about that! I've been a moody ass thanks to all this, but I'd never stop being your friend because of it. I feared you finally knew one thing too much about me and would resent me, that's all. I'm sorry, and you here growing troubled without any help escaping it."

Boromir smiled at that, looking more relieved than truly happy. "Good. I'm glad to know that."

"Will you tell me what's troubling you? You were speaking before about your dreams, and the two fates your city might fall prey to."

Boromir sighed then, looking out at the dense trunk blocking them from any approaching eyes. "I fear, Merry. I fear a great many things. Of all those things, though, of every possible fate, I fear myself the most. "

"Yourself?" Merry leaned in, frowning, studying Boromir. He looked so sad that Merry's chest ached at it. Boromir had too many burdens on him - he ought to be made to smile as often as possible.

"I fear that my mind is weakening to this temptation. " He turned to Merry again, naked emotions on his face for Merry to see. "I don't trust myself, and I fear it will get worse. Will you watch me? The others already do, I know that. Aragorn at least. He has never trusted me with the knowledge we all carry. But you...I feel sure you might talk me away from madness if it gets too close. Will you help me?"

Merry blinked, astonished and pleased and scared and worried all at once in a confusing jumble. His mouth dropped open but the words came out seconds later. "Of course! I would do anything for you, Boromir. You'll not fall victim to any tricks, of elf lady or ring or your own mind. I'll see to that."

Boromir nodded. "Thank you." He took Merry's hand in his again and held it tightly. "I don't like feeling weak. The people of Gondor would never believe it to see it in me."

Merry smiled hesitantly, brave enough to grasp Boromir's hand in return. "Then you go on being brave and fearing nothing, and I'll take on all the worry and the doubt and I'll fret enough for any two people."

Boromir smiled at that, more sincere than he had all day. "I appreciate the offer, but if it were that easy to shed a person's fear than we'd all be much weaker-willed people than we are."

Merry moved up to his knees, to put himself at eye level with the man. "But as long as you know that someone's worried about them, maybe you can at least feel a little bit better. I'll do that for you. I think it's clear that the cares of us Shire folk are less serious than you big people. I have care to spare."

Boromir's eyes skimmed over Merry's face as he talked. "I wish there was some way to let you..." He trailed off.

Merry squeezed his hand. "But there is, I just know it. We may appear as children to you, but I'm not a child. I may have had a careless life but we have survived horrors since we left the Shire and I am wiser now than I was. It's not blindly that I offer to help you. I know your troubles may be too much for me to take on, but help I can give either way."

Boromir kissed him.

The gentle covering of a large mouth silenced Merry, and he was so shocked he pulled away almost instantly. He blinked round eyes at Boromir, at the same time a tightness in his chest loosened a hold he hadn't realized it held on him, and his breathing whooshed out of him as if he'd been breathing too shallowly for days.

Boromir studied him, meeting his shock with brave straightness.

But before he could say anything Merry realized exactly what had just happened and took a giant step forward, pressing him into Boromir as he tilted up to find his mouth again with fierce eagerness.

The covering of a hand pressed to his back, holding him near, and the softness of the kiss nearly undid him. He held his breath, shutting his eyes tightly and hoping he wouldn't open them to Pippin's face telling him to wake up and that half the day was gone. The mouth against his was light, yes, but searching, looking for something and settling in with a contentment that made Merry think they could spend hours without moving and both be quite happy.

They broke apart when breath forced him. He pulled back and had to take a breath before he dared to open his eyes. When it was Boromir he saw there he breathed out again.

The man's face was kind, but his eyes were burning. He lifted a hand to Merry's face, to touch his rounded cheek with rough fingertips. Merry shivered at the touch.

"So very different," Boromir spoke quietly. "But so very fair, and so dear to me."

Merry thought for a moment that he might cry, and wasn't that a foolish reaction when he'd just gotten something he had wanted so badly? "It will take a miracle for us to survive this," he said. "And another to let us find some similar path afterwards. But if we can somehow have those two, is it ridiculous to think that we might have a third, and somehow stay together?"

"I don't know," Boromir answered slowly. "I don't have enough trust in the first two miracles to even consider a third. But you know my heart now. Even if we never speak of it again, I won't have you doubt your value to me. You're no mere companion, Merry. You remind me in a lot of ways of Faramir, but you're not like a brother at all. I wish that hobbits were a bigger race, that I wouldn't so much notice our differences. But as things are I could be happy with you."

Merry hugged him spontaneously, grasping him around the neck. "You think about possibilities. Me, I'm going to put all my trust in miracles."

A low chuckle was his answer, and that large, warm hand found his back again. Another shiver went through Merry, and when he stepped back finally he regarded Boromir. "Well. I think you look more cheerful already. And now that I'm back looking after you, I think somehow things will be better."

"I don't doubt you're right," he answered with a smile.


	7. Chapter 7

The smile was short-lived. It held while they strolled back to their chambers in the trees, and as they talked over the goings on of the day with the others in the fellowship. But it faded when talk turned to their course, and Aragorn reported that the lady and lord of the wood were decided that they should leave very soon.

This time Merry watched him during the talk, as he promised to, and he saw fully the entire depth of emotions welling up on his face as they spoke. His gaze turned, again and again, to Frodo, and at times he touched the base of his finger with his other hand absently, as if he were wearing a ring he was toying with.

Merry was frightened by it, and fully resolved to do all he could to protect Boromir from what was haunting him.

When the time came to leave, they were seen off in quite a luxurious style, with gifts and food and kind words from that mysterious and beautiful lady of the wood.

And then it seemed to have been a dream. Lorien seemed as hazy in his mind as it had appeared during the foggiest of evenings when they were there. They found themselves in boats, presents of the elves, and for many long days they floated through the lands, watching the scenery change and feeling about as gray as the skies remained.

Merry and Pippin were put into Boromir's boat - as ever since the journey had started, Aragorn claimed Frodo and Sam. But none of the three in the lesser boat minded the change. In fact, Merry was sure that Boromir was relieved at it. No temptations to cloud his mind, Merry figured. He tried to spend the days lightly, in talk with Pippin and Boromir. But the man was distracted so often he lost track of any conversation. Pippin chattered on as lightly as he ever had in lazy Shire days for a while, but on the fourth day of their trip down river he began to fall into the somber mood that had fallen over the rest of the fellowship.

And without anyone to talk to, Merry's mind fell into grayness as well.

When they made camp that fourth night, Aragorn told them that here was the fork in the road that they had been waiting on. The next day's travel would bring two different possible courses.

"I will return to Gondor and to the war there, for that is my duty," answered Boromir stiffly, and Merry moved from Pip to sit beside him in silent support. This would be a night he had dreaded.

Boromir didn't seem to notice him there.

The talk went on, as all talks between them did. Arguments were made and then dismissed, and options were weighed. At last the choice was placed on poor Frodo to make, and Merry didn't envy his cousin in the slightest. It was easy to forget that Frodo was the center of this whole thing - he was so quiet about it. He was drawn from them, Merry realized, and he was drawing further even then.

He left their camp to walk and to think, and Merry sighed to see him go. He couldn't imagine having a choice like this laid on his own shoulders. Indeed it seemed odd that it was on Frodo's. A hobbit he was, even if he was more learned and more serious than most. That any fate of any world should rest on a hobbit was so remote an idea that it seemed silly.

Boromir stirred after a few minutes of silent reflection. "I feel I'm in need of a walk myself. A breath of air away from river and fire will do me good." He spoke to Aragorn, but for a moment his gaze was on Merry and there was something there that was alarming.

Merry hesitated until he was gone, and he looked back at Aragorn and saw the suspicion that lit the man's face before it cleared and he set about unpacking food for the group from their packs.

Pippin came to him and sat with a sigh. "I'm glad something's finally happening. It seems like we've been floating down a stream since we were lads."

Merry nodded absently, looking out at the trees where Boromir had vanished.

"Merry."

He blinked and looked back at his cousin.

Pippin studied him, then smiled. "You're growing more serious, but this is in a different way than before. And you were so happy days ago. I guess you had words with your Man."

Merry laughed quietly. "He's not my Man. He's not a pet. But yes, we talked."

"And? I would have demanded the truth from you days ago but I thought you would tell me on your own. Now I see you've inherited some of Gandalf's closeness, and so I'll demand after all."

"And..." Merry shrugged, a blush growing on his cheeks. "He isn't unhappy with me."

Pippin gave a triumphant sort of laugh, so odd a sound in the grim mood that the eyes of everyone turned to them.

Merry's blush deepened and he ducked his head. "Oi, Pip. It's not something to be told to everyone."

"I'm not at all sorry to be happy for you, my dear cousin. Now since things are going so well why do you look so sad now? Your Man has gone for a lovely walk in the woods without you, perhaps. I don't see why you don't simply join him."

Merry blinked and looked up. "You know, Pip...you're right." He looked out towards the trees, then got to his feet decisively. "I'll be back."

Pip chuckled and waved him away. "Go on, then. Don't have too much fun - we're on a solemn journey, you know, and you'll get in trouble if you enjoy yourself."

Merry grinned but took off before he could answer.


	8. Chapter 8

He heard the voices before he saw them, but he didn't have to see them to realize something was terribly wrong.

"Will you not at least let me make trial of my plan? Lend me the ring,"

"No!" Frodo. Sounding scared and defensive.

Merry moved through the trees and saw them both and what he had feared most was all over Boromir's face - his kind Boromir wasn't there anymore. Instead was this twisted and angry man.

"You can lay the blame on me," he said, his voice low and cutting and hard. "You could say I was too strong and I took it."

Frodo backed away quickly, his eyes huge and frightened.

Merry stepped forward. "Boromir!"

They both spun towards him, and Frodo gave a faint sound of relief and instantly moved to his cousin's side. But Merry kept his eyes on Boromir, worried and shocked. "It's the trouble in your mind talking, not you. Think!"

Boromir glared at him for a long moment. There was nothing familiar in his eyes, nothing that said he recognized Merry beyond an interruption to his plans. He stepped forward, and those large hands were balled into fists.

Frodo grasped Merry's arm and pulled at him. "Back to Aragorn," he said in a hiss. "We've got to get-"

Merry shrugged him off. "Go, then," he said, taking a step to meet Boromir.

Frodo let him go, but didn't answer.

Merry forgot about him, moving up to meet Boromir. "You know what I think? I think you're in there, and I think you're closer than you think. Boromir. It's me." He spoke quietly, his eyes on Boromir's.

Boromir stopped, looking down at him. The glower in his eyes lasted another second, then two, then it faded back like a cloud being blown away by sudden wind. He blinked and shook his head as if clearing away lingering sleep, and his feet stumbled.

"Boromir." Merry knew the moment his Boromir was back, and he moved in without fear and put a hand on his arm. "Boromir?"

"What have I done?" Boromir looked up, his eyes bleak. "Merry?"

"It's alright. You were gone for a moment, you weren't in control. But it's over now."

"But...Frodo. I threatened to..." Boromir shook his head, looking lost. "It wasn't me. The voice was mine but the words..."

Merry frowned. "It was the ring, and Frodo will understand that."

"I have to go." Boromir shut his eyes and let out a low breath. "I have to go to Minis Tirith, and the ring cannot come with me." He shook his head. "With the power that ring has, even my father should fall to it. I understand now. I see the danger. It is too much for me to be near. Aragorn was right."

Merry heard defeat in his voice, as if he had failed. He tugged at Boromir's hand, since the man was too high up for him to reach any other way. "It is too much for anyone. Gandalf was to scared of it, and the lady of the woods. It's no defeat to be overcome by something that even the strongest people fear."

"It's defeat, Merry. Defeat of my hopes." He crouched down slowly to look at Merry. "Thank you. If you hadn't come, the madness would have overthrown me. I would have done something that could not be undone." He glanced behind Merry. "Maybe I already have."

Merry turned, and saw that Frodo had gone, run off while he was distracted. "He's gone to Aragorn, Boromir. He will tell him what's happened. I suppose we'll have to deal with that as it comes. But maybe it's for the best. The ring can go on its own way."

Boromir nodded, and stood up straight. "Then we best go back and face the mess that I have made. Come, Merry."

But there was a shriek suddenly, a cry in the woods beyond them, between them and the campsite the Fellowship had made.

Merry gasped - he recognized that shriek from the depths of Moria. "Orcs!"

Boromir's sword flashed in his hand in an instant. "Stay with me. Let's try to get back to the others."

Merry obeyed, his heart racing with fear as he stumbled after Boromir out into the trees beyond. He had his own small blade in his hand, though he didn't remember grabbing it, and as they ran he saw flashes of moment beyond them, between trees and among the bushes. First from their right, then their left, and he could hear more voices shouting from behind.

Surrounded, he thought, and he would have been paralyzed with fear had Boromir not seen him slow and called to him. "Merry! Come! Don't let the fear control you."

He ran more towards Boromir than away from any fear, and he trampled along in a blur of fright. He had to get back to Pippin and the others, and to stay with Boromir, and--

"Here's one of the little rats now!"

A hand, rough and scaly, clamped on Merry's shoulder and threw him to the ground. He gasped, staring up at a large, strong form. Not an orc, one of those things Gandalf had called uruks.

The thing was grinning down at him with horrid black teeth, his great hands pawing him, trying to get a hold to lift him up.

There was a sudden fierce blow, a high note that drove back the fear from Merry's heart, and caused the Uruk to jump back, staring around wildly.

Merry looked up to see Boromir blasting another high note on his horn before charging back towards him and slicing the air before the Uruk, driving it back. "Up, Merry!"

Merry shot to his feet, and saw that they were surrounded on all sides by approaching figures, orcs and Uruks both.

He gripped his sword tightly, backing up closer to Boromir. There was no time for thought or talk, and they were set upon. Merry's little sword flashed, slicing at hands that tried to grab for him. Beside him Boromir sent orc after orc falling to the ground to lie still.

Merry didn't have time for much thought, but it was easy to see that the orcs weren't trying to hack and hurt him the way they were lunging at Boromir. There were no swords coming for him, just hands.

They were trying to capture him, he knew suddenly, but for what reason he couldn't tell.

There was a sound, an odd, high-pitched sound, like air buzzing over his head, and an odd kind of thump.

Then under the sounds of fighting and the screams of orcs, there was the softest noise, the tiniest whoosh of breath. Merry spun around, driven by a sudden, incomprehensible sense of urgency, and saw that Boromir had fallen. On his knees now, and from his body there stuck the end of an arrow, black and edged with matter feathers.

Boromir's face was gray, and his eyes seemed glazed and glassy. He looked up, and for a second his gaze brushed over Merry.

A movement dragged his attention away, and he spotted an Uruk behind Boromir, cocking another arrow into his bow, and aiming as if to shoot Boromir in his back as he kneeled.

Merry acted without thought, a cry of despair ripping from his throat. He lunged past Boromir and threw himself at the Uruk, knocking the bow from his hand and driving him back half a step. The Uruk laughed and grabbed him by the shirt, lifting him easily and tossing him as if he weighed nothing to another Uruk behind.

"We've got what we came for," the Uruk growled.

Merry struggled in the second Uruk's grip, raising his arm and swiping his blade down on the creature's arm. With a roar he was dropped, but the first Uruk grabbed him again, ripping the sword from his hand. "You want a sting yourself, little rat?"

Merry grabbed at his arm, biting his hand hard enough that he could taste black, foul blood. But the Uruk only laughed, and he wrapped his other hand around Merry's neck easily, hauling him up to eye level. "Do you want to end up like your friend?" he hissed into Merry's face, twisting him and holding him out to see Boromir.

Merry's struggles ceased in horror. Boromir had fallen, was lying on his side with that arrow jutting out. His eyes were closed.

Merry wanted to scream, but the grip around his throat made him hoarse. Instead he wept, tears burning down his face and over the skin of the Uruk.

He didn't fight anymore.

The orcs and Uruk ran, taking him off through the woods away from the company. He looked back until he could see no more, his gaze locked on Boromir, still as death.

His eyes were closed.


	9. Chapter 9

Then his eyes were open.

Boromir gasped and arched, rolling onto his back and staring blindly at the blue sky.

The orcs were running - even now he could see the last of the company running past as if he was just another rock.

He hissed and rolled to his side again, curling his legs so that he could push himself up to his knees. He was not dead - it would take more than one filthy arrow to kill the son of the steward of Gondor.

He found his sword where it had been lying under him, but the orcs were just dark figures in the distance. His eyes caught on the small glint of a blade near him, and he felt his burning chest collapse in sudden realization - Merry!

He struggled, but once he made it to one leg he stumbled and almost fell.

But he was caught, a hand gripping his arm and weight pressing against his side to hold him up. He surged back, trying to fight, but a familiar voice rang in his ear, distant somehow but audible. "Boromir! It's I!"

Legolas, his mind noted, and he stopped fighting and sagged against the solid weight of the elf. Legolas was slight, but strong, and he held Boromir easily. "Still! Be still! There's an arrow inside you."

Boromir would have laughed if his mind wasn't on the poor hobbit now taken up by his enemy. "I'm aware of that," he said instead. "Where is..." His voice failed and he felt a weakness coming over him.

"Down, Boromir. Lay down here among your fallen foes, and I will bring aid to you."

Boromir obeyed mostly because he didn't have the strength to argue. But his mind was replaying over and over he filthy uruks grabbing at Merry, tossing him around as if he was a prize they had won. They had him, they were taking him...

Aragorn was suddenly there, and he didn't know how much time had passed. To his shock there was a weigh pushing a bandage to his side, where the arrow had pierced through, but the arrow itself was gone.

Aragorn was speaking, elven words by the sound, in a low mumble. Boromir grasped for his hand. "Aragorn..."

Aragorn looked up in surprise and relief. "Be still. You've bled badly."

"The uruks. Merry."

Aragorn nodded grimly. "Pippin as well. There were too many to keep him safe."

"Frodo...?"

"He is gone, with Sam. Across the river and out of our hands."

"I..." He breathed in, and it was hard with such fierce weight holding him down. He knew that was in his mind, though, and he sucked in air stubbornly to try again.

But Aragorn silenced him. "I know what happened, but the madness hasn't won, and its cause is now far away."

Boromir sat up, and for a moment Aragorn protested, but then he aided, no doubt seeing the stubbornness in Boromir's eyes. "They took Merry. And Pippin. We must go after them."

"But the ring bearer is our true mission," Legolas said from somewhere behind. "Ought we leave him to whatever fortune he finds?"

Boromir found his sword beside him. He took it in his hand and started the slow and painful struggle to his feet. "Elves can choose their own path, but I have chosen mine. " He couldn't shake the image of Merry's face from his mind, and he knew with more certainty than he had ever seen his path before that he must go to his aide.

"Boromir. You're wounded. Whatever we decide for ourselves, you are near to your city and ought to go there and recover. You'll get nowhere like this."

Boromir glared down at Gimli. "Men are not made of anything weaker than dwarves. I will not crawl to a healing house and lay abed while my friend is out there being held by those filthy creatures. Whatever you decide, Gimli, I will not have my own choices blocked. "

Gimli's eyes went to Aragorn. Legolas too was looking to the man. Boromir reached his feet, finally, without aide and swaying just slightly before he could draw in air and relieve the crush in his chest, and stand more solidly. "My wound is not fatal."

"The chase might be," Aragorn answered, his eyes dark as they studied him.

"I have the right to choose the manner of my death, if that be so. But this will not kill me."

Aragorn frowned and looked away for a moment, off into the distance. "We will take an hour. I will think. Boromir, take a rest. If you're so driven to do this, it will be the only one you get for a time. " He frowned out at the trees. "The ring bearer...I feel sure that he did right, and that it is no longer my task to aid him. Frodo's fate is in his own hands now, his and Sam's. I would have gone with them to the end, to Mount Doom itself. But Boromir is right. Merry and Pippin cannot be abandoned."

He looked back at them, the three left in his company. "At last my heart speaks clearly. Rest, Boromir, and we will gather our packs. You will carry nothing but your sword, but you may still find it a trial to keep up with the chase we shall have to make."

Boromir nodded, sinking back and sitting heavily against a tree. "I am ready for a trial."


	10. Chapter 10

Merry took a blow from a furious Uruk whose arm he had split in the fighting, and after that things were a daze. His vision went red with trickles of blood filling his eyes, and his world was nothing but dull pain, despair, and the sound and stench of a hundred uruks as they carried him away with them.

Nothing filtered through the haze of grief and pain until he was thrown down the first night and the uruks were joined by a group of orcs who had trailed behind after the battle.

There was a thump near him, and then a familiar voice, panicked, made him start. "Merry!"

He opened his stinging eyes and through blurred red he could see the face of his cousin. "Pip." His voice was low and weak and sounded nothing at all like him.

"Merry!" Pippin looked around and lowered his voice. "Merry, you're hurt. You're bleeding everywhere!"

"It doesn't matter," Merry said dully, shutting his eyes again to close away the stinging. "They killed him."

"Killed him? Killed who?" Pip's warm little body nestled beside him, and Merry could feel the rough cords that bound his wrists the way they bound Merry's.

"Boromir," Merry answered dully.

Pippin breathed out. "Oh, Merry. But it's you I must worry about now. Your poor head."

"I can't even feel it," Merry said quietly. "Don't worry about me."

Pip was silent then, but his close and clinging weight told Merry he wasn't going to stop his worry. Awkward wrapped hands came up and tried to brush away some of the blood trickling over Merry's eyes. "Don't give up on me, please. We're here together in this horrible place and these filthy things have us, and I couldn't survive it if you were to give up and leave me alone."

Merry's eyes opened at that, and tears streaked red with blood went down his cheeks. "Pippin." The tears cleared his vision, and he saw his cousin's worried young face. He leaned in and buried his face against Pip's chest. "I won't give up," he said even as he sobbed.


	11. Chapter 11

For the rest of his days Boromir would never be able to explain how he survived the great chase that carried him after the uruks and his own dear Merry. Miles upon miles they ran, hour after hour, stopping neither to rest nor eat. At times he lagged behind, but not often any more than Gimli's shorter legs caused him to lag.

Aragorn watched him at first with doubt, then worry, and in time with a sort of wonder.

Even Legolas remarked, as they reached the borders to Rohan and made a decision to rest for a few hours, "Minis Tirith must be an incredible city indeed if it is filled with such men as Boromir."

He had been drifting to sleep, but he heard that and nearly smiled, though worry drove it back.

"I had not think he would make it half so far," Aragorn said quietly, as Boromir's eyes shut and he tried to find some kind of rest. "Or else I had planned that the chase would be slowed. I fear for what this is doing to him, and that there will be a collapse too strong to recover from in the future. "

"As for me, I doubt no longer. I've lived my entire life with none but other dwarves around me, and we are entirely convinced of our own strength as being greater than other races. But neither elf nor man will I ever doubt again. Nor hobbit, if those two young things are alive when we find them again."

Boromir's heart ached painfully at that, and he opened his eyes again. If he were to sleep he would only be plagued by dreams and no rest would be gotten that way. "I think a time might come when we see that hobbits are stronger than the rest of us," he said quietly.

The three looked to him, and Aragorn nodded. "I hope you're right."

Their thoughtful conversation was cut short as Legolas stood, eyes fixed on a growing dark spot on the horizon. "There are horsemen coming."

They got to their feet, and as the men of Rohan approached Boromir felt himself strengthened. These were allies, men he had fought with before. No matter which garrison, he knew the soldiers of Rohan.

Indeed, as the men drew close and Aragorn called to them, the man leading the garrison pulled off his helmet and cried out for a halt. "Boromir!"

"Eomer!" Boromir stepped forward, moving past his companions as the horsemen circled around. "What brings you this far north?"

"The same could be asked of you," Eomer replied, jumping from his horse and clasping arms with Boromir. They had known each other many years, and fought together more than once. Both lords of their cities, if not royal. Eomer looked at his face for only a moment before he frowned. "And wounded? In this company? Come, Boromir, speak."

"We hunt a band of uruks marching towards Isengard. They've captured two of our friends." It was Aragorn who answered, and Boromir nodded for him to come forward.

"There is no need to be hesitant," Boromir told his friends. "Then men of Rohan are no servants of any enemy."

"No," Eomer answered firmly. "But...neither are we at war. Not yet. Boromir, if you come to Rohan to seek the king you will find things sadly changed."

"How so? Do I guess right that it involved Saruman?"

"It does indeed, though my suspicions don't have solid fact behind them. The king's mind has been slipping away these last months, and now I fear he is overthrown. He no longer recognizes friend from foe."

Boromir had to stop to keep from voicing similar fears about where his own father's mind was headed. "These uruks we hunt, we are following their trail now, and on their trail you ride. Can you tell us anything?"

"I can tell you that you don't need to follow them longer. The uruks are destroyed. We attacked them in the night." Eomer clasped his shoulder. "Come, Boromir, you can--"

Boromir flinched and paled, pulling away from his grip. "Careful, old friend. I fear I'm in worse condition than I have ever been."

Eomer's smile vanished. "Then come, straight away. We will take you back to Edoras and you will be tended."

"The uruks, Eomer. They were holding two of our friends. Hobbits. What became of them?" Boromir's face was pale again, and worry was overcoming him. He knew how the wild men of Rohan fought in the night, and knew very little would have escaped alive.

"We saw none but uruks and a few orcs. We piled the dead to burn them, and there are none but those foul beasts smoking now."

"They would be small," Aragorn put in. "Children to your eyes. Perhaps overlooked?"

"The Rohirrim do not overlook our enemies, small or large. But what are these hobbits?"

"Halflings," Boromir stated quietly. "From out of legend and tales. Strange and small, but dear to us. Very dear."

"Halflings!" Eomer chuckled lowly. "But you do arrive in strange company. There was nothing like these halflings among the uruks we slaughtered. Perhaps they got loose."

He shook his head solemnly. "We've been following their trail closely, and my friends are more skilled trackers than any I've ever seen. We could not have missed their path had they gotten loose."

"I don't know what to tell you. Your friends aren't there. Perhaps they were flown away, or got out during the fighting, but more than likely they were disposed of well before now. The uruks like those we slaughtered don't take prisoners."

Boromir frowned back at his friends. Gimli's head was bowed, as if mourning already. Aragorn looked grim, but determined. Boromir met his gaze for a moment, then Aragorn nodded and stepped forward. "We will go on. We haven't followed our friends all this way to surrender without seeing sign of them."

But Eomer kept his eyes on Boromir. "You can search if you like, but why not ride with us? Return to Edoras. Boromir of Gondor and his companions would be most welcome in these dark times."

Boromir shook his head instantly. "We'll not surrender our friends. We are free to travel through Rohan, are we not?"

Eomer frowned, but nodded slowly. "Anyone traveling with Boromir is welcome in our lands. Here." He gave a sharp whistle and called three names, and three horses without riders emerged when their names were called. "I will provide horses. Wounded men will travel better if they ride, and this might help your search." He went forward to the horses, taking their reins and leading them forward.

Boromir took a set of reigns and couldn't quite hide his relief. "Thank you. I could have run to the edges of Mordor if I had to, but I find this a relief."

"I should think so." Eomer passed the other two to Aragorn and Legolas. "But I would ask a favor of you before you leave us. All of you." He turned to the four of them in turn. "When you have found your friends or lost all hope, come to Edoras. We have need of all signs of hope we can get. Let us fight together as we once did." That was directed at Boromir. "You will have to return to your land, I know. We hear dark tidings of the course of battle in Gondor. But to come, to give our men the knowledge that we don't fight alone, would be a boost unlooked for and most welcome."

Boromir clasped his arm. "You have my word. We will come, or I will come alone. But I fear if we don't find our friends it will be a while before I give up all hope."

Eomer studied him for a moment, then nodded. "These halflings must be out of mighty legend to inspire such loyalty from Boromir, and Ranger and elf and dwarf."

"A strange race, to be sure," Gimli stated, eying the horse near to Legolas with dourness on his face. "But merry and hearty and brave, to be sure. They deserve perhaps least of all races to be left in the hands of such foul creatures. To think of them reaching the very clutch of that dark shadow in the east..."

Boromir shuddered suddenly and visibly. "You should not speak of such things," he said quickly, his voice rough. The image of those two, and of Merry in particular, suffering in the tormenting hands of the evil that had haunted the borders of his land for so long... He couldn't stomach it. It would be like imagining Faramir in their hands, but...worse. because Faramir was a fighter, a strong man. Stronger than Boromir himself in many ways. Stronger in himself. But Merry was an innocent, a caring and gentle soul. He deserved no torment. He deserved a life in his Shire, smiling and happy and making others laugh. He deserved to smile and to love and be loved in return.

Boromir fought back his thoughts and emotions, realizing that Eomer was still looking at him, and that his expression was odd. He glanced at his companions. Gimli gazed at him solemnly, but there was a strangeness to Aragorn and Legolas's faces that made his cheeks heat with sudden warmth. He looked away.

Aragorn spoke after a moment. "We will join him if we can. I would like to see the halls of Edoras, and to meet Theoden again."

"Again? I fear you will find him changed." Eomer drew his eyes to his own men. "Very well. Then look for your friends, and I will hope to see you soon."

He mounted his horse with the easy grace that the Rohirrim all seemed to possess. After spurring his horse on he shouted to lead the battalions of horsemen behind him.

The fleet took a few minutes to pass, and when the last horses had kicked up dust around them and left them to their own devices, Boromir turned to his mount. The men of Gondor were not typically riders. They fought their battles on the floor of woods and the enemy came to them too often for them to have to ride out to meet battle.

Still, the tug in his side and the dullness in his heart made him more glad to see the beast than he'd ever been to see a horse before.

"Come on," he said gruffly, mounting with difficulty, though he didn't let it show for more than a second. "They're still out there somewhere."

"So we hope," Gimli answered in a growl as Legolas helped him to mount the horse they would share.

No, thought Boromir, looking out at the path they were taking. More than hope. It had to be more.


	12. Chapter 12

Merry swallowed the draught supplied by the Ent, Treebeard, and felt refreshed for the first time since the battle in the woods. Since seeing Boromir fall. He sighed to himself and his brief moment of peaceful rest twisted into sadness again.

"Do you know, I think we're taller."

He blinked and looked over at Pip. "Hmm?" Beyond them the Ents were saying and talking to each other in their low, creaking, rustling language, and Merry and Pip were left to their own devices as the moot continued.

Pip gestured at himself, straightening. "I'm taller. I could swear it. And this." He shook out his hair, and Merry noticed with a sudden wry sort of amusement that his hair was longer.

"You look like a girl."

"I do not!" Pip humphed at him. "Anyway, it's happened to you, too. I think we'll find ourselves an inch taller, maybe, when we leave here."

"And inch? We'd be the tallest hobbits in the Shire." Merry smiled faintly.

"So we would." Pip took another sip of the Ent draught. "It's the drink doing it. Treebeard said it would keep us green and growing. Maybe he didn't realize hobbits aren't meant to grow more than this."

Merry humphed, looking down at the pitcher he held. It was a good drink, and...

He stopped suddenly, staring down at it in a rather miserable realization. It made them bigger. He could hear Boromir in his head suddenly. "If only you weren't such a small race, I wouldn't notice the differences as much."

He sighed and set the pitcher down, his appetite gone.

"Merry." Pip moved o sit beside him. "You've got to stop this. You can't stay lost in despair. We'll likely die in this war ourselves, and then what's the good of having lived your last days in mourning?"

"If you're right then what's the good of living any way at all?" Merry sighed and curled his legs up to his chest, resting his chin on his knees and watching the Ents sway. "I don't know what's wrong with me, Pip. Only that he came to mean so much to me somehow."

"Sounds like you were in love, cousin. But not for the first time, if I remember right. And maybe not for the last."

Merry frowned, because it was for the first time. He'd used the word before, of course, all silly young besotted hobbits talked about love with whatever girl had caught their fancy. That didn't make it true. He'd certainly never felt the grasping, needy, painful feeling that Boromir caused with anyone else. Or the sheer delight, and fascination, and the need to make everything better somehow.

"I don't want to talk about it," Merry said finally. "It's too painful."

"Very well," Pip said with a sigh. "Then I'll sit here and sulk with you."

And he did.


	13. Chapter 13

The white wizard came at them as an apparition from below, laughing at their feeble attempt to climb to catch sight of him as he lurked below.

The sight of a familiar face instead of the evil one they had expected was too much a relief. All their worst fears were seeming to be coming undone, and Boromir took that as a sign that maybe the most evil thing to have befallen them, the capture of two of their company, would come undone as well.

The inability to focus on the reunion with their old guide and to absorb his story with the raptness shown by the others surprised him. He didn't consider himself to be flighty, nor to have wandering attentions. But as Gandalf spoke he gazed out past them into the dark, thick forest of Fangorn and was nearly impatient to have the tale done with so they could continue on their search.

"But now, this is all the time we have for a reunion of old friends. The game has started, and the pieces are moving. We must get to Edoras, not the least because you gave your word to do so."

That caught Boromir's attention, and he looked back at the group.

Gimli spoke first, saying the words that came to Boromir's mind. "And what about the hobbits? Have we come so far to track them only to give up without answers?"

"Merry and Pippin are safe. They are with Treebeard and the Ents. Their coming here is like the falling of small rocks that causes an avalanche. They are much safer for the present than we are, in the course we must take."

Boromir spoke instantly. "I don't like leaving them, no matter what hands they're in. To go without even seeing that they're alright seems foolish, if we're so close."

"Close?" Gandalf shook his head. "By now they are at the very heart of Fangorn, and without Ents to carry you the trip would be more than a few days. Come, Boromir, the place for us now is on the battlefield. Rohan first, and then to return to Gondor. The right, of course, is yours to go where you please. But your word was given to Eomer, if I heard your tale correctly."

Boromir frowned deeply, looking off into the woods again. "Very well. I will trust you, Gandalf, though my heart wants to have sight of my own to trust."

Aragorn clapped him on the arm, smiling with an ease of the care he'd had since Gandalf's fall in Moria. "Come, Boromir. You'll have enough to see and do to keep your thoughts distracted. And you ought finally to have that wound looked at by healers."

"Wound?" Gandalf faced him in curiosity.

"He took an orc arrow defending these two hobbits from our enemies at the ford where our fellowship was broken," Legolas explained.

"Then I understand more this concern to see them." Gandalf smiled, looking a kindly old man - deceptive, Boromir knew, but he relaxed all the same. "You have my word, Master Boromir, that you will see these two hobbits alive and in better times than these."


	14. Chapter 14

Pippin's eyes seemed ready to pop out of his head, he stared so wildly around them at the marching, singing, thrumming Ents. "Merry! Can you believe it! No one at home will ever take this story seriously."

Merry had to admit that despite his sorrow he was amazed, and the song of the Ents, the drumming and harrumphing, was boiling inside of his chest, making him more alive and alert than he'd been in long days. "Do you think they mean to carry us, to let us watch like birds perched in their branches?"

"Oh, more than that, Master Merry," came the low rumble of Treebeard's voice beneath them. "There will be orc and stone and metal to chew, more than enough for hobbits should they want to fight."

Merry looked out at the trees past them, and his expression went hard. "Good."


	15. Chapter 15

"You do not mean to keep me in a cave with women and children and old, useless men when there is a battle to be fought!"

Aragorn sat down on the edge of his bed with a frown. "I don't have time to argue about this."

"Then get me my sword and be done with it!" Boromir answered in a snarl, sitting up and pushing the sheet off of his legs. "No son of Denethor's is going to sit by and let a war go on around him. "

"We are not in Gondor now, Boromir. Save your strength for when we come to that land."

Boromir looked at him grimly, meeting his gaze with even eyes. "I will not. Do you think the rumors have escaped this house? You are arming boys, old men. Farmers, fat old drunks. You don't have the luxury to choose your army, and you know that my sword isn't a loss you can afford to bear."

Aragorn frowned, but slowly he nodded. "It would be hard. But I would rather suffer that loss than the loss of you to weakness and wounds."

"I have not succumbed so far. I feel stronger now after a half-day's rest than before we set out on that great chase across the plains. Have faith in me, Aragorn. I know that once I have let you down. I will not do it again."

Aragorn's expression softened, and he reached to clasp Boromir's hand for a moment. "It is not out of distrust or doubt of you that I wish to keep you safe. "

Boromir nodded at that. "I'm glad to know it."

He drew in a breath, then stood. "I will find raiment for you. Your sword lies with your back beside your bed."

Boromir sank back against the wall and relaxed at that, letting Aragorn leave.


	16. Chapter 16

"Oh my god! Merry!" Pippin grasped Merry's arm suddenly with a pale face and growing smile. "Merry! He's come back from the dead! He's come back!"

Merry's tired body instantly shivered to life, and he sat up and turned, his heart jumping into his throat feeling as if it might choke him. He had his mouth open and the name formed, but only the B emerged before he saw the form that had caught Pippin's eyes.

"Gandalf!" Pippin was already up, already racing towards the approaching horse and wizard. "Gandalf! We thought you were dead!"

Merry stood up with difficulty. His muscles were sore and he was tired after such a long fight. He hadn't done much, true, not compared to the stone crushing of the Ents, but he had killed orcs. He had even gotten a satisfaction out of it.

He approached more slowly. He was able to smile, because the wizard was indeed back from the dead and that was worth a smile at least. "Gandalf!"

"Where in all this ruin is Treebeard? I want him."

The wizard strode past them, and Pippin laughed in delight. "Closer than ever! Even death hasn't changed old Gandalf, has it?" He looked at Merry then, and his grin faded in confusion. "What on earth is wrong with you? It's Gandalf!"

Merry looked away, still hearing those words in his head. _"He's come back from the dead! He's come back!" _

He trudged back towards the wall


	17. Chapter 17

.Boromir rode slowly, behind the front lines of Gandalf, Aragorn, and Theoden. He rode behind the second flank of Eomer, Legolas and Gimli, and Hama. He had lost a bit of pace during the long trek, but he was tired and there wasn't a soul there who would begrudge him a few paces in line.

The battle at Helm's Deep had been worse than he'd expected. A siege, lasting all the long and endless night and into the morning, taking too many good men with it, causing too many hurts. None to Boromir, none save a glancing scratch from a passing arrow that hurt more in the memories it stirred than the gash it caused.

He was half asleep on his horse, and beside him a lot of the men looked the same. They had all asked to come, of course, and Boromir was more curious than most to see this great and evil wizard, Saruman.

But what they found no one save perhaps Gandalf expected to see.

Ruin. Rubble. Great gashes and tears in collapsed walls as if great hands had simply torn away stone like paper.

The gate was in ruin, and a great pile of rubble lay where it had once stood.

On the ruin, Boromir saw as those in front were pointed towards it, were two figures smoking pipes.

He sat up straight in his saddle, and a smile came to his face, slow and then stretching broad to a grin, and he laughed aloud, drawing the eyes of tired soldiers near him.

His weariness fell off like a heavy coat in warm weather, and he spurred his horse to catch up to where Gandalf, Aragorn, Theoden, and Legolas and Gimli had ridden forward.

Gimli was growling at the two when he got there. "I am so torn between rage and joy that if I don't explode it shall be a wonder!"

The hobbits laughed, and Boromir had a moment to see them without being seen, to marvel at the change in them. Their hair, their height. They seemed healthy and flourishing. But he could see on Merry's face grief and pain under his laughter, and he marveled that he could tell.

He spurred his horse on, flanking Legolas and jumping from the mount without thinking. "And for me? Do two hobbits have any greeting for the one who took the most hurt at their parting?"

The two turned to him and instantly froze. The laughter vanished from Merry's face, and Boromir could see then how thin a mask it had truly been. Pippin on the other hand laughed louder, delight all over him radiating so much it could almost be felt.

"Boromir! I might have known Merry was exaggerating your injuries!"

"Exaggerating...?" Boromir fell silent then, instantly realizing that the last Merry must have seen of him was collapsing after he had been shot. He understood the pain and grief, and knew that they had been for him. He moved forward instantly, forgetting Pippin, forgetting the king behind him and the soldiers further off past the gate. "Merry."

"Boromir?" Merry stood stricken, his eyes round and baffled.

"But I thought...I saw you..." He stood silent after that.

"Surely these are the missing members of your company," came the voice of Theoden behind them. "There can be no mistaking that this is a meeting of old friends."

Boromir scanned the face of his own precious little hobbit, sorrowing at the grief he found there, the care that had never been in Merry's face before.

But even as he looked the care was leaving, the grief replaced by simple shock and a naked hope. He crouched without thought to the people behind him. Though he was giving no thought to his injury and the tiredness that had threatened the entire way to Isengard, the injury had not forgotten him, and he winced at a pull of torn skin beneath his bandages and clothes.

Merry saw and stepped forward. "You're hurt?"

Boromir nodded, a hand on his side. "The arrow. A wound, but not fatal. And not enough to keep me from coming to find you."

Merry stumbled forward another step, his eyes wide and worried now, searching Boromir's face. "Are you alright?"

He smiled faintly. "I am now."

Merry laughed, a faint, hesitant sound. Uneven, without the melody of the normal hobbit laughter, but it was the most welcome sound Boromir had heard in some time.

He smiled more sincerely, and Merry smiled back.

And then Gandalf rode forward and made mention of Saruman, and the goings on of the world beyond the two of them infiltrated Boromir's mind.

In the end, he made the choice to ride with the others, and if their reunion had been cut short at least Merry was allowed to ride with him, and he could hold his hobbit safely in front of him as they rode after the solemn line towards the tower of Orthanc.

"There is no telling what sort of tricks he could use against you, if you come to him with a light heart." Gandalf was advising the group as they rode to the tower.

"I don't think even the enemy himself could stop my heart from being light," came a soft response from in front of Boromir.

He squeezed Merry to him without a reply, though he too felt suddenly that nothing that could happen this day would be bad enough to overwhelm the good that had already occurred.

Saruman spoke to them from atop his tower, from a balcony where he was imprisoned in the house he had made for himself. He spoke and Boromir could hear the compassion in his voice, the wisdom. The danger. The men of Gondor didn't bow to words, they were men of action.

He spoke when it seemed that Theoden was prepared to listen to the words of the wizard. "King Theoden, I speak for the Steward of Gondor. You have allies, allies who have proven to be loyal to you as you have to them. The friendship of Isengard was once a thing to hope for, but look around you. Isengard is no more, and the friendship of Saruman will lead to similar ruin to your own lands."

"You were not given leave to speak, Boromir, son of Denethor." Saruman's voice drifted down to him, hissing at first in anger and then instantly softening to a caress of voice. "But since you have spoken, I will address you. Your lands have proven loyal to themselves, and then to all allies. You are a people strengthened, and weakened, by warfare. You think with the sword, and are quick to call an enemy by name."

Boromir straightened in his saddle, pride in his eyes. If Saruman meant any of those words to be an insult, he had not succeeded.

"But be sure you do not call names that have not been earned. Because you have doubts, doubts that have been planted in your mind by the words of those around you, do not call me enemy who has never struck a blow against your land. "

Boromir looked up at the balcony, his eyes narrowed. He spoke, his voice clear and strong despite his exhaustion. "Saruman, you spoke true. The men of Gondor think first of their lands, and then of their allies. If our lands fall, our allies fall. We do not put the safety of other lands second, nor do we consider a blow struck against us only if it falls against our land."

"You speak as a headstrong young lord, one who has never held the true authority of your country. There is a difference between leading soldiers and leading nations. You are a valiant soldier and you make your decisions based on that. Your father would not thank you for your foolish defiance of a powerful ally. Prove yourself more than a soldier. Prove that you have in you the wisdom your father and brother have always shown so much more that you."

Boromir had a flash of uncertainty. It was true, and it was said by more than Saruman - the blood of Numenor, the blood of their ancestors, had always shown plainer in his father, and in Faramir. It was not Saruman alone or his influence that spoke those words.

A small weight on his hand distracted him, and he looked down to see Merry turned in the saddle, looking up at him. There was a smile on Merry's face, crooked and wry and at once he was the young hobbit Boromir had first met again, without the weight of care on him. "Sounds like he's doing an impression of that silly ring, doesn't he?"

Boromir grinned instantly, and looked back up with his doubts vanished from his mind. "I'm not here as a leader of nations, Saruman. I am here as a person of Middle Earth who will not see all nations destroyed."

"You are here nursemaiding rats from the Shire, Steward's son." Saruman's voice cracked over them, fierce and angry. "You are weak! You think I am too far away to sense it? I can smell your weakness, it fills the air around you. You would endanger yourself, your land, and your companions. And for what? To be a waiting-boy for this so-called heir to your throne, to the wizard who would see him usurp your father. To reduce the line of Denethor to a prop to hold up undersized Shirelings on their horses."

"Saruman!" Boromir called up suddenly, and somehow he found himself wanting to laugh. His voice held a chuckle as he spoke. "If you are trying to read into my mind you will have to try harder than that. You speak of things I hold pride in as if they are things I will deny, or regret."

Gandalf spoke then, cutting off any reply Saruman might have made. "He is right, Saruman. It seems you've lost your touch for influencing, or else you have no power over a company that is true in heart and mind."

Boromir relaxed then, as the wizards took the fight upon themselves. He looked over when he felt eyes on him, and Aragorn nodded his way and gave a faint smile. Appreciative, Boromir thought. If nothing else he seemed sure then that Boromir was no longer corruptible by tricks of the enemy.

Boromir nodded back, saving his smile for when he looked down again, at the head of curly brown hair sitting against his chest. He reached around and lay his hand on Merry's arm. "I think you have saved me again, Master Merry."

"Don't be silly," came the response, light in words but thick with emotions. "You saved yourself and me as well."

"You?" But Boromir didn't question further, because he thought he understood, and it warmed him. He leaned in, resting his chin against brown curls and stroking Merry's arm with his hand.

They would have time, he thought, to talk later. And much to talk about, as his mind had spoken clearly to him in the days of Merry's capture and their chase.


	18. Chapter 18

But it wasn't to be. Hardly had they ridden away from Orthanc and left the staffless, powerless wreck of Saruman behind then Pippin was caught by the grip of the palantir, and Gandalf came to them in urgency.

"We must ride to Gondor. I must speak with Denethor, and Pippin must come with me. Boromir, your choice is your own, but I think your father would be more inclined to listen to me if I bring also his son safe home."

Boromir frowned at that. "And the rest of the fellowship?"

"They will remain with Theoden. They must ride to Edoras, and assemble an army to march to Gondor after us. War is coming, and I fear it is coming directly to Minis Tirith."

Boromir looked across the way at where Merry stood in laughing talk with Gimli and Legolas. "We will come, then."

Gandalf shook his head. "We must travel as fast as lightning. Shadowfax can bear a hobbit and me without slowing, but your horse will need to be pushed further than even the horses of Rohan are accustomed. You must leave your pack, and no other passenger can be bourn. Come, Boromir. War doesn't give time for rest and talk, not to those of us who must ride with the news of it to unsuspecting lands."

Boromir mounted his horse, and the eyes of the others fell on him. "We will see you in Gondor, in time," he called to his companions. But his eyes were on Merry.

Merry frowned instantly, shocked. "Where are--"

Aragorn took his arm to hold him back, and he nodded at Boromir gravely. "In time," he said with a hand raised in farewell.

Boromir's horse reared as he turned in.

"Boromir! Pippin!"

He spurred into a gallop and raced to meet Gandalf and his white horse. He didn't look back.


	19. Chapter 19

He was left. And then, just like that, he was left again.

"I think it's your path to remain with King Theoden, and to ride with him, if he'll take you."

"It would be my honor."

Theoden was a kind king, and a gentle man. He talked to Merry with respect, as if Merry had accomplished great things of his own on the quest. Merry knew that to be allowed to accompany him was an honor.

But this would mean saying goodbye to Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli. To the fellowship, all gone off together different places and leaving him behind. Baggage, as he'd called himself minutes ago. He was baggage left to be taken up by whoever would be less inconvenienced.

He smiled as he accepted, though. His thoughts were dark but he was not without civility or honor of his own, and when he offered his sword to Theoden, he was appeased at least a little by the seemingly authentic joy in which his offer was received.

But when he watched the three of his fellowship ride away with the Rangers, he felt a bleak despair coming over him. Everyone was gone now. Everyone had left. He was the last.

He rode beside the king, and Theoden lifted his spirits. As they rode the king talked to him - really talked, not out of boredom or obligation. The king asked him about his Shire, and he told what he could in their limited time riding. Theoden spoke of his own home and youth, and Merry was warmed to find that the king was really as gracious and kind as he acted.

Merry's heart warmed towards Theoden, and he found himself regarding the old king as something of a father. Silly, perhaps, given who he was compared to the great king of Rohan, but Theoden seemed pleased at the idea, and made sure to keep Merry beside him in the great mass of men.

But at night, alone in his little tent left to listen to the comings and goings from the king's tent beside, it was hard not to let melancholy come over him again.

Boromir was alive. That arrow didn't kill him, but...but he was off to Gondor, to face some huge, terrible coming war. He and Pippin, off to the front lines of a fight no one expected to survive.

He lay in his little bed listening to the voices of important men, and he could shut his eyes and remember the feel of Boromir, warm and alive and tucked behind him on that horse, holding him to keep him safe and upright. He had never felt anything more vibrantly than he had felt the wonder at seeing Boromir again, riding up to the gates of Isengard as casual as anything.

And then he rode off without a word. Without a chance to talk, without giving Merry a chance to tell him some of the things that had been bubbling up. He didn't have a chance even to thank him for saving his life.

And he didn't know how the great tides of war might have swayed Boromir's thoughts.

Time was so short, and growing shorter all the time. To not have had time while Boromir was there to say anything...

It was hard. Too hard. The more he thought about it the worse he felt.


	20. Chapter 20

Boromir was greeted at the borders of his land by the shocked, jubilant faces of men of the guard.

"Lord Boromir! This is a joy unlooked for!"

Boromir pulled up to the small company beside the gleaming white hide of Shadowfax. "Why unlooked for? Was there doubt I would return to fight?"

"Doubt in you? Never! But..." The men exchanged looks. "There are tales coming from the seventh level of the city. You were thought to have perished days ago."

Boromir frowned at that, instantly realizing the implications. "Let me pass, then, and my friends with me. I must get to the Steward."

"At once!"

Boromir and Gandalf, and Pippin with him, rode on, Boromir's sudden urgency infecting his tired horse and for the first time they kept up with the pace set by Shadowfax.

At the gate of the city once more they were greeted in shock, and shouts of joy. Cheers heralded their coming, and somehow before even the speedy horses could run them up to the seventh level word of their coming had gone ahead. The gates were opened wide for them, and gathering members of the guard, of Boromir's own company, were assembling with cheers of joy to see him.

He straightened in his saddle as he rode, proud despite exhaustion he had not yet been able to chase away. He waved to the men assembled, and smiled despite himself when a massive shout of his name greeted the wave.

They dismounted as they approached the courtyard, and Boromir was sent ahead with a nod from Gandalf as he had a few quick words with Pippin.

He strode past the bare tree and its guards, and into the hall of the king where his father would be waiting.

Denethor sat alert, in his chair at the base of the stairs leading to the white throne of the king. He stood the moment the door opened, and something fell from his hand to the seat of the chair. "Boromir!"

Boromir strode in, moving across the hall to him. "Father. I heard tale at the gates. I don't have to tell you the tale wasn't true."

"Boromir!" Denethor's old eyes were creased in pure shock, and the beginnings of joy. He met his son, and they embraced tightly.

Boromir could see over his shoulder the thing he had dropped onto his throne. "The horn!"

Denethor released him to look back. "The horn. It came to us on the river thirteen days ago. Boromir, my son! We feared what it meant. There was no word from you, and I have seen..."

Boromir frowned at his father. "You have seen? Father, these visions of yours. I have told you before they are not to be trusted. This should be as sure a sign as any."

But Denethor wasn't listening. He clapped Boromir on his arm. "You look tired. Are you injured, son? An arrow, perhaps?"

Boromir started, but nodded. "An old injury by now, in terms of what I've done since. "

"You will be looked after."

The doors behind them opened again, and Denethor frowned. "Who have you brought with you?"

"Mithrandir, and a companion of ours since leaving Imladris."

"Mithrandir." For a moment Denethor's face darkened and his eyes flashed, but before Boromir could question him the look vanished and Denethor turned from him to greet the guests.

"Mithrandir. No longer shall you be known as a bringer of woe to our city. You have returned to us our greatest treasure."

Boromir waited behind Denethor, and he could see clearly that Gandalf was not fooled by the greeting.

Things were happening in his city; that was plain enough. More than the coming battle, things were boiling inside the hall of the king. Inside the mind of his father.


	21. Chapter 21

Merry's hands balled into fists, and his eyes felt like they'd burn right out of his skull. "But all my friends have ridden to battle. I would be ashamed to be left behind. Why did you take me on as swordthain if not to ride into battle at your side?"

Theoden looked down at him, his face gentle. "I took you on for your own safety, and to have you do as I bid. No more arguments, Merry."

Merry was left alone in his small tent as the armies went on preparing around him. "I won't be left behind to be called on return. I won't!" He paced the small walls of his tent and then out the door again, his sword in his hand and his mind made up. He would sneak. He would mount his little pony and ride ahead, and then after when they had caught him up and past him.

"You wish to ride to war with the king. I can see it in your eyes."

Merry turned back and saw eyes on him, young and strange under helmet and helm. "I do."

"Then you will ride with me. I will carry you under my cloak until we have ridden far afield."

Merry clutched his sword, letting out a breath of relief. "Thank you, sir, though I don't know your name." He recognized him nonetheless - a young man hidden under helmet who he had caught sight of earlier - a man who rode without hope, who rode to his death and seemed to want nothing else but that.

Merry was horrified when he saw such a look in someone so young before, but now...now he understood it. His friends were all gone to their own fates, their own deaths, most probably. And there was never time...never time to do what he needed. Never time to make any real connections. If the world was going to end after these battles, why prolong his fate? Why have a constant brush with the good part of life if it was only going to be robbed from him before he could enjoy it?

It seemed pointless. Like going on, simply existing instead of living. Whatever kind of life was possible in such a dark land during such a terrible time wasn't life, not to him.

He felt a kinship to this soldier suddenly, and he clutched his sword in his hand and felt grimness coming over him. "Thank you."


	22. Chapter 22

"Boromir!"

He heard the voice, familiar and more than welcome, and he stood instantly from his bed. "Faramir! You've returned!"

"I could say the same to you!" Faramir came in, his eyes glowing with joy. "Brother! They feared you were lost!"

"I know." Boromir laughed as they embraced. "You knew better, I trust."

"I did indeed. " Faramir pulled back, looking so young and carefree hat he seemed out of place in the grim city. Still, the wisdom in his eyes spoke of certainty. "I would have known if you were lost to us. I never had a doubt. Though the horn was a sore blow. " He held Boromir back at arm's length. "You're wounded, or you wouldn't be here. What's the matter?"

Boromir lay a hand on his side. "An orc arrow. Two weeks ago, and hardly worth mentioning, but father insisted. Tell me of you."

Faramir sat with him on his bed, and they spoke for a long time. At first of Faramir's duties, of strategy, and the fall of Osgiliath. It was a blow, but not unexpected. The forces of the enemy, as Boromir now knew too well, were immeasurable against the armies of Gondor.

Boromir spoke quickly of his own trials, telling Faramir openly about Aragorn where he had not told his own father, speaking of the fellowship, of Rivendell and Lorien. He spoke of his companions, but there his story grew less certain.

"And who is this Merry? Another halfling by the sound of him." Faramir was laughing by then. "I learned their magic for myself when I met Frodo and Sam. It seems you made quite a friend."

Boromir's levity was fading bit by bit as he thought back on the journey. "Not a friend. Faramir, he is the thing that allowed me to survive this trip. I nearly lost my mind to that ring. It is no exaggeration to say that I would have made more grievous mistakes than I could ever amend."

Faramir nodded at that, gravity returning to him. "I felt the tug of that ring in a single evening, and it was a trial. I can imagine what it did to you."

"It took me over. The day I took the arrow, Faramir...I nearly lost myself to it. Merry was the thing that saved me. He brought me back, somehow."

"Then we owe him a debt of gratitude. Where is he now?"

"I don't know. We left him with Theoden." Boromir frowned.

There was silence for a moment, then Faramir spoke quietly. "Boromir. There's something odd about this, isn't there? Your heart is troubled, though you have often had to leave friends behind to go to other battles."

"This is different," Boromir replied with a slow nod. "I feel like we shouldn't have parted, not the way we did. Not with my gratitude left unspoken and so many things unsaid."

"You regret, then. That's unusual. I've never known you to go without saying what you feel to someone. Not when it's important. Too much the opposite, usually." Faramir smiled.

"But that's because normally I am clear and untroubled about how I feel."

That made Faramir pause, and he studied his brother with the deep, thoughtful look that had reduced Boromir to blushes more often than once. An embarrassing power for a younger brother to have over the older, but Boromir felt no shame. Faramir was wiser than he was, and admitting to come second to a man like his brother was no embarrassment.

Still, he felt his eyes drop under the force of his brother's gaze, and he sighed deeply. "This is why I usually don't deal in emotions."

Faramir smiled at that. "You are more emotional than most people I know."

"But not this sort."

"Ah." Another thoughtful silence. "Then I expect we ought to get straight how you do feel, so your thoughts will be less cluttered when you and this halfling meet again."

Boromir stood up suddenly. "Walk with me. I have had enough of healing houses."

They left together, with many assurances to the warden of the house of healing that Boromir was more than fit to take a stroll in the company of his brother. The two young lords were so beloved that few would have argued them anything, much less something small like a walk. They left without any argument.

And for a while Boromir hoped that that little change in surroundings had removed their conversation from his brother's mind. But he knew better, and so he wasn't surprised when Faramir spoke again thoughtfully, under the watchful eyes of the garden flowers.

"Now, let me see how much I've figured out, from between the lines of this tale of yours."

Boromir sighed, knowing he would have guessed most if not all of what he'd not said. "Just remember that my pride is fragile."

Faramir laughed, a carefree sound such as hadn't been heard from him since his brother had left. "Your pride!" He sent his brother a smiling look. "Your pride could be shot by more than orc arrows and still not be cracked in the least. Your pride is the least vulnerable part of you."

Boromir smiled to himself, but leaned over to hit his brother's arm lightly. "I'll have you know that I've been humbled lately, and my pride is not quite what it used to be. "

"I don't believe it. I do believe that you're trying to stall me from my purpose." Faramir grinned and hit Boromir a light punch on the arm in return. "Is it not so?"

"Fine, fine. Speak your mind then, since you'll give me no peace until you do."

Faramir chuckled, but his eyes gazed sidelong at Boromir and he studied him. "You've returned from battle into further battle, yet you're not content. It isn't the troubles of the land that bother you, nor the future of our country."

Boromir snapped a look at him, his humor fading. "Now--"

"Peace. I don't suggest you're not worried for us. I know your country will always come first to you, but that doesn't mean you can't worry for other things. And for now, your worries are all centered around a single young halfling. You're not happy about that, because you can't resolve how you ought to feel with how you do feel towards this Merry. Now I know you, Boromir, and I know a little of these halflings. You're not struggling against friendship, because what are these members of a new race but our friends? Neither is it that you dislike him but feel you ought to like him, because it's obvious this hobbit has your affection." He met Boromir's eyes then, meaningful.

Boromir grimaced and looked away, towards the setting sun sinking slowly over the west wall.

"And there we have it. You suffer because you feel too much for a halfling, more than friendship, with all your affection behind it. Well, I do believe our mystery isn't such a mystery after all."

"Stop speaking so lightly about it, then," Boromir heard himself snapping. He turned to Faramir, frowning. "Don't treat it as a joke, because that's the last thing I think of this as. Perhaps it's amusing to you that such a small creature has become dear to me. Maybe you think I'm not fitted to care, or he is not fit to be the target of my affections."

Faramir raised both hands in the air, neither surprised nor upset by Boromir's sudden anger. "Peace, brother. I spoke lightly of the mystery, not of the matter behind it. You know I would never treat your feelings as a joke."

Boromir nodded after a moment, looking away again. "But shouldn't it be a joke? The son of the steward, captain of armies and strongest in a strong city, simpering with care over a silly, smiling, carefree little hobbit."

"If it's real than it's no joke. Besides, I have seen for myself the strength of will and the spirit these halflings hold. It will be long years before I forget what passed between Frodo and myself, and Sam by his side. No, I don't think it's a joke. To say that would be to call the race of hobbits jokes, and carefree though they are they're at least as important as the race of men in the days ahead."

"It's not Gondor I think of, or the future of Middle Earth." Boromir spoke slowly, thoughtful. "Indeed, it's difficult to equate Merry to the larger things. It's as if..." He looked to Faramir suddenly. "Often I have sat in camp with soldiers and heard their tales. I'm certain you have as well. Often the men speak of things at home, things they miss. One of my oldest and most experienced men, Beranolen, once spoke of his little home in the lowest level of the city."

He thought back, and felt Faramir's eyes on him as he smiled faintly to himself. "He used to say that the battle was never truly over until he got to his home, and saw the flame of a single small candle burning in the window. It was a message from his wife, a constant presence in that window. A sign that she hadn't lost an ounce of devotion in his absence, that the home was his and waiting for him. Once he saw that candle, he said, the weight of war slid away and he suddenly felt refreshed and at peace."

Faramir smiled wistfully. "I've heard similar stories."

"Merry has been my candle." Boromir looked at his brother without shame at the admission. "To see him there is like seeing a home, an absence of war, a place where I can be at peace. I was aware of that before, during the journey, especially after we left the borders of Lorien. But it became real to me when I saw him again at Isengard, for such a short time. It is foolish to think of such things with so much going on around me, yet I find that I want to. I want to think that after the arrows and the orcs and the battles we still have to face, there is a candle waiting for me if I should survive it all."

Faramir stopped suddenly, turning to him. Both hands found Boromir's arms and held there. "To find such a thing is a miracle. You know that. Other men speak of love and it's seemed to me something unreal that they flourish to make themselves seem luckier. To hear you speak this way is...it's heartening. To have found something like that for yourself during such dark times must be thought of as no less than a miracle, and it hardly matters a whit if it's a man, elf, dwarf, or hobbit you've found it with."

Boromir met his earnest gaze, and he nodded after a moment. "I know, but--"

"No. There is no 'but'. You have peace and happiness at your beck and call, you only need to survive long enough to take hold of it. I am jealous of you - sorely, if the truth be known. I have longed to find such a person for myself."

"You will." Boromir met his eyes with a smile. "And perhaps you'll be luckier still, and she will be tall and beautiful and someone you can marry and bare children with."

Faramir studied him. "Then you regret that this halfling isn't some human woman?"

"That's a hard question." Boromir respected his brother far too much to answer without thought. "I cannot picture Merry being anything but what he is. But Faramir...I am to be Steward one day. It is I who must keep the line of Stewards going, or else risk father's wrath. Should this war come to a good end, should Aragorn come to take his place, there will still be Stewards, and Stewards need heirs. You speak of finding love as if it's the beginning and end of the matter, but I'm not in a place to choose a little male halfling when my people need a line of rulers to take them into the future."

"Then what do you propose? You take for yourself a wife and forget this peace you have? Or else you keep Merry near you as some sort of swordthain as you make for yourself a family?"

Boromir frowned. "You begin to understand my problems."

"And I don't envy you, save that you have felt love and you can go on knowing that one who loves you is out in the world waiting."


	23. Chapter 23

Merry watched Dernhelm pace a small circle around their tiny, out of the way fire. The young man hadn't gotten any less mysterious in their journey. He never talked, and no one talked to him. Occasionally he and the captain of the company they rode with exchanged looks, but they apparently had some sort of understanding, because he never came over to them, and he made no notice of Merry even when he was in plain sight.

Still, there was something about the young man that Merry felt himself warm to. Perhaps the feeling that Dernhelm, like him, was alone in this battle. Or that flash of hopelessness, that wish for death, that he'd seen in the young man's eyes earlier.

"Why do you go to fight?" he asked suddenly, speaking softly though no one was within earshot of the two of them.

Dernhelm's pacing stopped, and he looked down at Merry. His helmet stayed as ever on his head, shielding half his face. His eyes shined out from the metal glinting in the firelight. "I go to fight because war is on us," he answered in that oddly high, gruff voice.

"But do you fight for a family? For honor? Or just because you feel we all must fight?"

There was a pause. Dernhelm slowly returned to their packs and sat. "Perhaps a mix of all. Our families are all at risk now. Our honor as well. And if we don't fight we should die."

"Yet those aren't your reasons, whether they're true or not."

Dernhelm looked at him for a moment, as if trying to sense if Merry knew him from somewhere. An odd look, suspicious but not unkind. "Perhaps not. Perhaps I simply fight now because there may never be another time."

"Then you want to fight?" Merry thought about that. "When I was young and listened to stories from my uncle about his adventures and the dangers he'd gone through, I thought I'd very much like to do something like that for myself. But now I realize that that was just childish thought without sense. Now I have fought, and I find the idea of going into more battles terrifying."

"But you came here. You wanted to come."

Merry smiled faintly. "I'm terrified, but...what is left for me if I don't go? My cousin and his friend are gone to meet their deaths in some horrible land. My best friend and...and one whom I've come to care about very much...they are already at this war we're marching to. I've listened to the bravest men say we're all going to our deaths, and if that's true, and I should lose all those people who've gone ahead of me, then it's much better to suffer a few long minutes of terror and warfare than to live on for however long we might live, alone and ashamed and without my friends around me." He stopped then, blushing. "But maybe you'd think that's silly. That I don't long for valor of my own. I'm not brave, not the way you and these other men are."

Dernhelm laughed, wry. "We are no less terrified than you, master holbytla. None of our reasons could be called more or less noble than yours. Indeed, you might think some of us truly petty. Myself, I fight to prove to myself that I can. That the people I come from aren't swine and drunkards without any possibility of honor. I have lived in a stagnant land for far too long. Battle gives me hope where I had none before."

"Hope for death, but a good death." Merry frowned. "That's not hope."

"It is," he replied stubbornly. "Why else does anyone go to battle? If they all believe they're going to lose this war, then what noble reason does an army have to march into death?"

Merry shook his head sadly. "I don't know. None of it makes sense in the end. All the hatred and fear and killing over...what? Because of some black figure in a far-off land who would rather rule a dead earth than exist as less in a live one."

Dernhelm nodded. "But there have always been wars to fight, and there always will be. If we were to win this one, another would be waiting around the bend. Why should any of us want to postpone our time to die?"

"So that we can have time to live, I suppose." Merry sighed. "Death is inevitable even without war: it's the living that gives it all a point. To live and love."

"Love." Dernhelm's rough voice went hard. "Another pointless quest."

"No. Painful and awful, but there's a point to it, in the end."

"You love someone who has gone to their death?"

Merry nodded. "I do."

"I do as well," he said quietly. He glanced at Merry. "It is a bitter thing."

"You'll call it what you may. I don't know. All I can speak for is myself, and all I can say is that I would rather live with this fear and doubt in my stomach than to go on without ever having felt this way towards someone else."

Dernhelm shook his head, but didn't reply.

They fell into silence, and Merry gazed into the small fire and wondered where his friends were now, and what was happening in all the lands they had traveled through and left behind.


	24. Chapter 24

"Father!" Boromir strode through the door, his eyes ablaze and his face red from exertion and anger. "Father! What are you doing? The city is breached! The first level is burning! Why do you sit here?"

Denethor smiled. He regarded his son with an unstable glint in his eyes. "My Boromir, come home to me just in time to die. To burn."

"What are you talking about? Our people fight!" Boromir moved across the expanse of the throne room to where his father sat. "Faramir and I do our best, but these men need their lord behind them."

"Yes. You do your best. My sons. But you don't see, Boromir. You never did see. You haven't the vision that I have, or even that of your useless brother. You have joined the side of a wizard who bewitches and seeks to control." Denethor laughed, a hollow and odd sound. "The war is already over, son. The victory is not ours."

Boromir stood for a moment, flummoxed entirely, and felt the beginnings of fear running through him. His father's words were odd, well enough, but his father had spoken oddly before and been right. His father had vision, had a talent for looking into the future and seeing the paths fate would choose.

Denethor stood then. "You will die today, Boromir. Faramir is already dead."

Boromir's entire body clenched, went tight.

"And I will die as well. It is all decided already. Fight if you wish, but you may only change the manor of your death, not death itself."

His head shook slowly without him even realizing.

Denethor moved to him and clasped him on the shoulder. His eyes, wise and deep and glazed, peered up at his son intensely. "We should die together. You and I, in the manor of our own choosing. "

"No." Boromir spoke uncertainly, his attention on his father but his body twitching to get out into the heart of battle where he was needed.

"No." Denethor repeated it, not surprised, just...repeating, thoughtful.

Boromir backed away a step, scared suddenly for more than himself and his brother. "You have looked too long into the future. You don't see the present anymore."

"I see what I need to see. Death is coming."

Boromir knew then - this face, his father whom had ruled them and commanded them and had their devotion all their lives...he was gone. Sometime in the months Boromir was away he had delved too deeply into his own foresight and had simply not returned.

He spoke hoarsely. "Choose death if it's best for you. I will not abandon our people or this city for any hazy future."

"And I will not see you slain and lying in a bloodstained mud pile surrounded by orc filth! " Denethor stumbled forwards and grabbed his arm in a solid grip. "We will die as men of honor used to die. As heathen kings in older years would choose to make their path."

"I will not!" Boromir tore from the grasp of that clenching hand. "I will die as I always meant to - with my men in battle. I am no king, and I am no heathen. " He backed away, and in his eyes Denethor was already lost. Another casualty of a war taking far too many.

Denethor took a step towards him, but the sound of distant horns from far below reached their ears, and sudden cheering from many tired throats.

Boromir half-turned, drawing a breath of relief. "Rohan! Theoden has come!"

"Fools! They are useless!"

But Boromir was more certain than ever, and he didn't even turn back to his father. He couldn't. He wanted to remember a strong and proud and wise man, not this wild-eyed creature.

He moved down the length of the room and out the doors, and though his father called and cried and shouted his name he didn't look back.

Theoden, he thought to himself simply. Eomer.

Merry.


	25. Chapter 25

In a moment every mystery and half-formed notion about Dernhelm was transformed into a clear, shocking truth.

"You look upon a woman! Eowyn, daughter of Eomund, shield maiden of Rohan. You stand between me and my kinsman!"

Merry backed up, his little sword forgotten in his hand, the battle around them, fading into a vacuum. "Eowyn!" It was a soft gasp.

And he understood, somehow. Her pride and determination to fight, and her absence of hope. He felt a hot rush of fear, of anger. Eowyn wouldn't stand alone. Not while he was there. She wouldn't fight even this...this most terrible of mighty enemies Merry could ever have imagined.

He moved in, and the sword was no longer forgotten. "Eowyn!" It was a battle cry, somehow, and he stopped the mighty black rider from striking her as his little sword plunged into the back of the beast's knee. There was a loud cry, a shriek like those he had first heard in a distant night in the Shire. Louder, though, and overpowering. He fell, and his arm fell under him but he couldn't feel it as anything but an odd mass digging into his side. His vision was hazy suddenly, but he looked up and blinked hard and watched Eowyn strike at the beast and fall to the ground.

The witch king vanished. With a cry as piercing and terrifying as any Merry had head, he was suddenly gone, and there were only steaming robes and a helmet on the ground to show he had ever been there.

Merry struggled to get up, but the entire right side of his body felt stiff and hollow, like he'd just knocked himself against something immeasurably hard and was still echoing all through. He crawled to Eowyn, and her eyes were shut. She was still as death.

He sobbed out a breath of despair and tried to crawl past her to where the king lay - Theoden, poor Theoden, crushed under the still body of his brilliant white horse.

A hand appeared on his back and he jerked, rolling to his side. Though in his mind he planned to lift up his sword and kill his attacker, in reality his sword was dissolved and the handle had fallen from slack fingers that wouldn't rise anyway.

But it was a man looking down at him, fair brown hair and gray eyes and he blinked blurred eyes and smiled numbly. "Boromir."

A voice spoke in answer, and it came as though from far away. "...brother. You must be Merr..." and out again.

Merry just clutched his arm with his one good hand. "Boromir!"

A growl near them made them both jump, and suddenly the man was rocked backwards away from him, and an orc lunged over Merry to finish the job. Merry screamed out, a surprisingly strong sound, and rose to throw himself and his small weight at the beast, sending a sword-stroke wide and dropping them both to the ground.

He rolled on his side and saw the man still, and saw a flash of red at his chest, and he wept and crawled to him painfully.

"Where is the king?" called a sudden voice, and suddenly there were soldiers all around them, and the man was being lifted and he was being lifted and he struggled against the touch. He was set on his feet and he stood, somehow, and watched with tear-streaked eyes as Theoden was lifted. Dead.

And Eowyn. Dead.

And Boromir.

He stumbled after the group that carried them all, but after only a minute his feet stopped moving and his eyes stopped seeing, and he fell.


	26. Chapter 26

Boromir raced out of the gate with the small company that he could find of his own men behind him.

But there wasn't much left to fight. Rangers were coming in from near the river - somehow, though when he saw Aragorn among them he knew the miracle was hard earned. Theoden's man and the remains of Gondor's army were chasing a ravaged enemy. All that was left seemed to be to finish off those who were too foolish to run away.

A procession was coming from the field, and Boromir frowned and motioned his men on to help with the fighting. He moved towards the soldiers.

His heart stopped for a moment when he recognized the person they carried in the front. "Faramir!" He raced over, hearing his father's voice in his head. It couldn't be true, though. The fight was done. They weren't to die today. No.

He reached the soldiers and stopped, horrified. After Faramir they carried a woman. Eowyn! And behind her, borne on a shield with a robe over him, was the king of Rohan.

It was too much, and he focused on what he was able to. He went to the men supporting his brother. "What happened? He's not dead. He can't be..."

"I'm not dead, yet. Stand here and question us for any length of time and that might change." Faramir's eyes opened blurrily and he looked up.

Boromir nearly fainted. "Faramir!" He pushed the two soldiers away from him, taking up his brother's weight for his own. He started them moving again, leading the procession on more hurriedly.

Faramir looked up at him. "Boromir..."

"Don't talk. Get to the houses of healing and take my old bed, and we'll talk then."

A low chuckle. "Yes, captain." Then Faramir went limp against him, and Boromir fought his fears and hefted his brother's weight onto him and moved even faster than before.


	27. Chapter 27

Merry was caught in a rather strange sort of dream. He felt heavy all over, as if the earth was fighting especially hard to keep him planted there against it. Everything around him was a roar, but there were no sounds he could identify. His eyes were open, but all he saw was gray and darker gray against it.

But he could think, and he knew. Dead. Everyone was dead. It was his worst nightmares come true.

The heavy grayness didn't feel like death, at least not as he'd ever imagined it. But he gave himself to it willingly, hoping it would simply carry him further into darkness and unite him with everyone he had just lost.


	28. Chapter 28

"Boromir."

He moved to his brother's side, taking his warm hand. "I must go back to the battle. Ioreth will tend you."

Faramir nodded, his eyes clear again as he looked up at Boromir. "Your halfling. I met him for a moment out there. He is hurt. He saved me from being killed."

"Merry?" Boromir's voice was small suddenly. "But the guards of the king told me he had not come." A wrenching seized his gut.

"If not him than it was one I've not heard mention of yet. But he called me by your name."

Boromir let go his brother's hand. "I must go."

Faramir nodded.

The field outside was hectic. The delight of victory was thrumming through the city, but there were battles going on still as the stragglers who had not fled were dealt with. Men cheered and men died, and through it all Boromir strode. He had fought with his men at the start of the battle, before chaos and questions led him to seek his father. Now his men rallied at the sight of him, striding through the battle, and cheered even as they fought.

He saw enemies lying where he had left them, beside the broken gate to the first level. He saw men he had lost. He burned with the odd, heated adrenaline of war, while knowing his part wasn't ended. He saw Gandalf on the field, his horse gleaming white. Beside him was a small figure with curly brown hair. He jogged towards them, and three orcs met their end as he passed. The sounds of battle were dying as even the remaining enemies were surrounded and killed.

"Gandalf!" He called as he approached the rider and the hobbit. He could tell it wasn't Merry - Pip was slighter and smaller and carried himself far differently - even at a distance. "Gandalf! We have need of you in the city."

Shadowfax reared and Gandalf turned to him.

Boromir jogged to the horse. "The steward has lost his wits. I left him shouting about our dooms. I don't know what the men will find."

Gandalf looked wild-eyed, but Boromir had seen that look and felt that way many a time himself. Battle infected all men, from least to greatest. "I will go to him. Peregrin Took, will you be safe enough here?"

Pippin nodded unsteadily. "It seems to be over."

"Watch him," Gandalf instructed Boromir, who nodded before he could think about being offended by the order. Watching hobbits was becoming more a habit than a chore.

As Gandalf spurred Shadowfax towards the city, Boromir stooped, serious. "Merry is here."

Pippin gasped, going pale instantly. "Here? Where?"

"I don't know. Faramir has seen him. He's out here..." He trailed off, looking out at the great expanse of the Pellenor fields, the heaps of dead and dying, the wounded man staggering in search of aid. The skirmishes still being fought.

He swallowed.

Pippin nearly stumbled. "He's out here?" His voice was tiny. "Boromir! We have to find him!"

And they set out, Boromir calling to men he knew in question and always receiving a shaken head. There were too many large forms on the ground. If Merry were hurt he would be easily overlooked. If he wasn't hurt...then where was he?

His mind left Pippin and he stopped keeping track of the young hobbit. He would be fine, dressed in the livery of the tower and on a field of a victory. Boromir was concerned with other matters.

And as the minutes ticked by and the field stretched immeasurably wide before him, he grew more frantic. Faramir had said he was wounded. How badly? Dead? Dying? He swallowed down his fears and moved faster, scanning piles of bodies, men he had known who for the moment he didn't think twice about. Foul orcs covered in black blood were nothing but an obstacle, one more thing that might be coming between him and his Merry.

He heard someone call him but he didn't slow down. A horn sounded near the city walls but he couldn't stop, couldn't look back. Somewhere in this chaos was a small, hurt hobbit. His Merry. His.

"Boromir!" The little gasp, horrified, managed to draw his attention where nothing else could.

He turned and found that Pippin had managed to stay near. He was standing shadowed in the collapsed bulk of a fallen mumakil, and he was bending over something. Picking it up.

A cloak. Grey. Elven. Small as Pippin's own.

Boromir moved forward, his confident stride becoming an uncertain stumble. The cloak was lying right beside the fallen beast, and it was stained with blood. Black blood mostly, but some deep red.

Pippin was clutching the thing in his hands, his eyes on the bulk of the enormous skinned-skinned mumakil. "Boromir..."

He shook his head instantly. "He's not there. He's not under there."

Pippin looked at him with dim hope. "How do you know that?"

"Because he can't be. Now keep looking!" Boromir forced himself to turn, to move on past the great beast. If Pippin followed or not he couldn't be sure, but he moved all the same on a driven path.

And then, what might have been minutes or a couple of hours later, he stumbled over the removed head of a helmeted man, and he saw a furry foot sticking out from under the headless body. He drew in a breath, rough and gasping, and was there in an instant. He shoved the dead weight of the body off, and he hit his knees on the blood--saturated ground.

"Merry." His voice was pinched. "Merry?"

There he lay, his arm twisted oddly beside him, his sword nowhere in sight. Blood covered him, but blood from the body that fell on him or his own Boromir couldn't tell.

Only this could he tell - Merry's face was as gray and lifeless as the head he had stumbled on, and his arm, when Boromir touched it, was cold and dead.

"No. " Boromir drew in a breath, grasping first for Merry's hand and then for his arm. Cold. Limp. Dead. "No!"

Pippin must have fallen behind, because for a long moment he was there alone, no others paying him any heed. For a long time he just stared in horror at the pale face and rounded cheeks he had grown so fond of. His hand rose without his willing it, and touched a gray cheek. Cool. Lifeless. Dead.

He bent over the still form, his mind blank, and for a moment he was entirely unsure of what to do. Victory on the fields was now a distant memory in he back of his mind. The madness of his father, the arrival of the new king, Faramir being wounded...it was all a background hum. The only thing his mind showed him clearly was a memory of Merry's face as he rode away from the rubble in front of Orthanc. They hadn't had time to talk, he thought to himself suddenly.

It repeated itself in his mind, stark and lost in the great empty cavern his mind had suddenly become. They hadn't had time to talk. They didn't have time to do anything. All the things he'd thought of since they parted, and al the things he'd figured out. Not to mention the things he couldn't figure out and knew he wouldn't until he talked to Merry again.

It was all gone. No chances now. Too late. Done. A casualty of war.

He shook his head, unable to slow down his jumbled thoughts. He found his hands clenched in the stiff fabric of the livery of Rohan, and his vision was so blurred that the white horse seemed a splash of gray, like a light-colored stain of blood on the already saturated clothing.

His fists loosened at his bidding, and though his thoughts stayed jumbled and confused he managed to hold on to the sudden fierce thought that Merry should not be left on the field for even another minute.

His hands slid beneath the slight form, and with a low groan that had nothing to do with physical effort he lifted Merry and pulled him close to his chest. The weight was almost nothing to a man used to far heavier loads, but he felt bent under the strain. He stumbled forward a step, thoughtless, then turned towards around to look across the wide field at the smoking city. His vision was still failing him, still blurred and unfocused, but he moved a step, and then another.

A small sound near him caught his focus, and he stumbled to a stop as Pip ran up, his face white and horrified under the mop of brown curls so like the limp head cradled on Boromir's chest. "Merry!"

Boromir blinked at the hobbit, opened his mouth, and formed the words with his lips. Dead. He's dead. I think he's dead. But nothing like that would come out. Nothing would admit to being real.

But Merry's limps hung limp from Boromir's arms, and Pippin took hold of the hand that fell near to his face, and he felt the ice-cold arm. His face collapsed, wide eyes crinkling under the force of sudden wetness that condensed there and fell down his cheeks. "Merry! No! Merry!"

Boromir took a step to pass him, to take his precious burden to the houses of healing, or to whatever place of honor they would be putting Theoden. But he stumbled, some unseen helmet or armor under his feet sending him off balance. He fell to his knees, but Merry was clutched gently to him even then, and he sat back on his heels and buried his face against limp brown curls. A shudder ran through him, and another, and he shook.

"Boromir?" Pip sounded scared, somewhere. But he was outside the world of Merry, and so Boromir paid little mind.

Soft hair brushed his mouth, and he pressed a kiss to the cool skin beneath. He was shaking so hard it almost felt as if Merry was stirring. A cruelly false hope.

"--get Gandalf!" he heard somewhere out beyond him. He paid no mind.

He had no idea why he's chosen to feel so strongly towards one of the strange race of hobbits. Only that Merry spoke to him gently and cared for him so obviously, and the sight of that little halfling drove evil from Boromir's mind and replaced it with a simple happiness.

He knew now that they would all die in this war, just as his father had guessed.

No. Not Faramir. Faramir ought to live. But Denethor would be better off dead now, and Boromir knew he would join him soon. Let the gods bring more battles to Pellenor fields, or else send him news of where one could be found. Some impossible battle, where he would die fast and hard but his name might live on after.

"Here now."

The voice invaded his mind with a sharp clarity nothing else had had since he saw his Merry lying so still and cold. He looked up, his vision blurred but focusing on the white form that stood above him.

Gandalf's face was pale, gentle, and sad. He looked to Boromir, then to Merry. A withered hand lay flat against Merry's forehead, and the wizard went more grave. He whispered something under his breath, and then brought his hand to Boromir's shoulder. "Now, my lad, let's get him inside."

Boromir found himself standing again. His attention went back to Merry, to gray skin and colorless lips and eyes that would never open again.

"Hurry, Boromir. To help, bring him in."

Help? Boromir moved where Gandalf led, though he didn't understand. "Help?" he said finally, and his voice was old and worn as if years had passed since he last spoke.

"Merry is living yet."

Boromir stumbled, only a little, and looked down instantly at Merry's face again. Beside him Pippin was jogging to keep up with the long strides of the men, and he reached out at that and clasped a cold hand.

Boromir didn't understand, but where wizards were concerned he rarely understood. Gandalf said hurry, and help, and living, and he followed because under his despair some hope must have remained still.

The houses of healing were overcrowded and burdened with the running around of those helping the healers, of the less injured trying to make room as more and more grave wounds came in from the battles. Gandalf strode through the hectic mass without breaking stride, and Boromir followed. Men saw him and spoke to him, but he moved through without hearing a word.

In the darkened back rooms of the houses, where Boromir himself had lay and Faramir had been placed, there were private rooms. Into one of these rooms strode Gandalf, and Boromir followed. He moved around the wizard when Gandalf stopped, and he lay Merry onto the empty bed. He felt the loss of having Merry close, and for a moment he hovered there. Gandalf took his arm and guided him back, though, and he moved without taking his eyes from Merry.

Pippin came in behind them, breathless and wide-eyed. "Gandalf. Is he really alive?"

Boromir was glad the hobbit asked, because he was in no position to form sentences, yet Merry looked so gray and lifeless that he felt the question in his own mind.

Gandalf murmured some word of comfort, but when he moved to the bedside his face was drawn. "He had been touched by the Black Breath. The lady Eowyn lies under this same spell, as do more from the fields. He received this hurt while striking a blow that few in Middle Earth would have had courage enough to deal out. This little halfling and the lady of Rohan slew the King of the Nazgul."

Boromir drew in a sharp breath, and he looked at Merry with new wonder. He had known his hobbit was brave, but that was a feat he wasn't sure even he could have suffered through.

Gandalf sighed. "He should have been borne back on shields by soldiers of the king, in honor and glory. But the son of Denethor is perhaps a good enough substitute."

"But what can be done for him? Will he get better?"

Gandalf turned back to Pippin and smiled, sad but kind. "I believe there is a way. Aragorn is coming this very moment to the houses of healing, and if they can be saved than he will be their savior." He turned to Boromir suddenly. "This isn't the time to hand you more troubles, I'm sure, but in this hour the city needs its leader."

Boromir nodded stiffly. "And I am its leader."

Gandalf nodded. "I'm sorry."

Boromir looked away from Merry for the first time. "Better he be dead than show himself to our people as mad."

Gandalf made a sound of agreement. "If you'll excuse me, Aragorn should be arriving. Boromir, as Steward it is your place to show him he has not offended by entering this city without leave."

Boromir grimaced. He moved to the bed and leaned to brush his fingers over a cool arm. His eyes went bleakly to Pippin. "Look after him."

Pippin nodded. "Of course. Tell Aragorn to hurry, please. I know there are more important people to be helped, but..."

"He will help." Boromir spoke grimly and followed Gandalf from the room.

Now when his people spoke to him he managed to smile, to ask after them, to check the healers to be sure supplies were adequate. Steward, he thought to himself dully. Leader. It wasn't a thing he particularly felt as if he wanted, especially not right then.

Aragorn moved in, unkempt and haggard in bloodstained rangers clothing. He looked like the Ranger who had first come to Rivendell and introduced himself so gravely to Boromir. Strider, he remembered. That was the name he gave.

Aragorn saw him and moved to his side, looking tired but solemn. "You have my apologies, my lord," he said softly.

Boromir met his eyes, steady. "You will rule this land when the time comes to decree it. For now it is at least yours to move about in as you please."

"Thank you," Aragorn said, and Boromir could see he meant it. He must have had a reservation still about Boromir's pride.

"There is work to be done."

Boromir stopped into the room where Faramir was lying. "Brother."

Faramir was awake, and his color was good. There was a bandage across his stomach, and Boromir felt his hand going to his side in sympathy as his now old wound ached.

Faramir saw the motion and smiled. "It was a sword stroke, and luckily it was deep but not deep enough. I will be mended easily." He studied Boromir's face. "And not the worst hurt to come today."

"No." The word was almost a whisper, and Boromir cleared his throat. "Father is dead."

Faramir nodded. "I knew it would not be long. He changed while you were gone. It is better, in the end."

"Yes."

"Your halfling?"

Boromir looked to the door. "I will go find out. He...seems bad."

Faramir smiled. "Don't waste time on me, then," he said quickly. "There's work for a Steward to do."

Boromir frowned but went to the door. Pausing, he glanced back. "Faramir..."

"Don't make up your mind just yet. There is no time for it now anyway."

Boromir still wondered at times how his brother managed to read his mind so well. He moved through the door and to the next room, and found Gandalf and Aragorn standing over the bed of the Lady Eowyn.

He moved in behind them, quiet. He had never seen her before, though he fought beside her brother. She was beautiful, and had the same dead grayness to her face that Merry had. He let himself take a little hope at that - if this was some infection that others had, perhaps it could be cured.

Aragorn held dried leaves in his hand, and he spoke softly, but Eomer, standing in the corner of the room and looking lost, caught Boromir's attention. Boromir felt a sudden wistful irony - Eomer was now lord of his own land. Another ruler without royal blood, another soldier who was better on the field than in a chamber.

There were interesting times ahead, if the war didn't take them all.

Eomer perked up suddenly, and moved in a stride to the bed. "Eowyn?"

Boromir looked over, and breathed in. The gray was gone from her face, and she looked to be stirring in her sleep.

"Speak to her, Eomer. She loves you more than me."

Boromir caught the words but didn't pay them heed. He had to get this help to Merry, lest he be overlooked in the chaos.

Eowyn's eyes opened, and Boromir moved in to take Aragorn's arm. "Please. There are more."

Aragorn nodded gravely. He moved away and left the brother and sister to each other. Gandalf didn't follow right away.

"Merry is hurt with this curse, whatever it is. Will you go to him?" Boromir asked it fearing to be rejected. As Pippin said, there were men there who might be called more important.

But Aragorn nodded instantly, moving where Boromir led.

In the room Pippin sat on the bed, holding Merry's hand on his and stroking his face and hair, talking softly. He stopped when he saw them come in, and his eyes were sad on Aragorn's. "Is he going to die?"

"No. No." Aragorn moved to the bed, carrying the crushed leaves and a bowl of steaming water. He managed a small smile at Pippin, but took in Merry with grimness. "He is buried under the weight of the black breath. He helped to slay a beast so dark that it can even kill by its own dying. But he will not die."

He crushed a dried leaf into the water, and dipped a rag into it.

Boromir watched them, hardly daring to breathe. It seemed if anything Merry had gotten worse, and fallen deeper into stillness.

Aragorn's hand soothed the cool face, and he spoke softly to him. Boromir caught the words this time, perhaps because his focus was intense.

"Merry. Merry. Come back to us. Your enemy is slain."

Merry didn't stir. The white sheen to his face stayed, clammy and dull and lifeless.

Aragorn frowned. "Merry. " He looked to Pippin suddenly. "Call to him. He needs to hear the voice of one he loves."

Pippin leaned in, clutching Merry's hand tightly. "Merry. Please, Merry wake up. It's all over now, there's no reason to be lazy. The work's all been done. There'll be supper soon. Merry?"

Merry's face seemed to regain some color. A light blush came into the cheeks, but he lay unmoving.

Aragorn frowned. He turned to Gandalf. "It is nothing but that curse on him?"

"Nothing that I know of." Gandalf glanced at Boromir.

Boromir didn't notice, looking at Merry's face in fear.

"There is no reason for a light heart like his to fall so deeply under the influence of the darkness. Unless he wanted to fall so."

Pippin heard that and looked up, tears in his eyes. "No! Merry is strong! He may be just a hobbit but he's strong!" He looked past them to where Boromir stood. "Help! You can bring him back!"

Boromir moved instantly, brushing past Aragorn and Gandalf. He sat hesitantly on the edge of the bed, and his hand went to Merry's face. Warmer, but not warm. He breathed in, and ignored the people around them, and spoke.

"Merry. Come back to me." He stroked the rounded cheek with a hand that looked large and ungainly beside the hobbit. "Merry...it's alright. it's safe. Wake up."

Merry stirred, and his face flushed all over with a sheen like fever. His head tossed, his brow furrowed.

Pip kept hold of his hand. "Please, Merry!"

Merry's face turned towards him, as if listening.

Boromir's fingers brushed up and down his cheek, feeling the warmth returning. His voice was thick in his throat as he spoke. "Merry, we need you here. Come back to us."

His mouth moved, forming a name that didn't get voiced, and his eyes opened suddenly.

Pippin sobbed out a joyful noise. "Merry!" He kissed his cousin's hand.

Merry blinked, his brow furrowed, but managed a smile. "What happened?" His voice was soft.

Boromir felt a tightness in his throat, and he spoke unevenly. "You went to sleep."

Merry's eyes went to him, and he breathed in deeply. "Boromir."

Seeing his confusion, Boromir cleared his throat and spoke. "You saved my brother's life, Merry. I owe you yet again."

"Your..." Merry's eyes widened as he remembered. He sat up slowly and with much help from the two sitting on his bed. "Faramir?"

Boromir nodded, smiling uncontrollably. Merry was looking at him, was confused. Was alive.

"You gave us a scare," Gandalf said from behind him, and Merry looked past them at the others in the room.

"Gandalf! Strider!" He broke into a smile. "You made it! Theoden was worried about you, Aragorn." His smile vanished, but he looked hopeful. "Is Theoden...did I dream it like I dreamed Boromir? Is he alright?"

"Theoden is dead," Gandalf replied gravely.

Merry's face fell, and beside him Pippin squeezed his hand. "What of Eowyn? She brought me here. She's the one who did such brave things."

"She is here. She will be fully recovered in time."

He sighed at that. "Thank you. I'm glad."

Gandalf smiled. "In fact, I believe as I was leaving her room she was ordering her brother to give you special honors for your valiant actions today."

Merry blushed, glancing at Boromir. "I wasn't valiant. I was terrified."

Boromir smiled back unsteadily. "What do you think valiance is? Action in the face of terror. You will be known in these lands for generations because of your deeds today."

"Really?" Merry blinked at that. "Good! Though it's not the best news I've gotten today."

Boromir smiled, this time wide and sincere. "Nor I."

Merry laughed quietly, the happiness in his face a far cry from the pale stillness Boromir had despaired in seeing.

"Boromir. I'm afraid there's little time to sit and be pleased. There is much work to be done out in the city." Aragorn spoke quietly. moving up and resting a hand on Boromir's shoulder. "We have much to do."

Boromir wanted to push him away, to clasp Merry's hand and sit there like Pip and spend at least a little while in talk. They never had any time. But he sighed and nodded. Meeting Merry's eyes, he spoke. "Denethor is dead. The job of the steward is mine. I'm sorry. I'll come back."

Merry nodded, sympathy replacing the rising protest in his eyes. "Of course. I know you will."

He stood and let his fingers fall from Merry's cheek. "We'll get you food sent in, and whatever else you may want. Just ask."

He left Merry sitting beside his grinning cousin, turning from the room with reluctance.

Aragorn moved with him, and Gandalf came behind after a last word or two to the hobbits.

"Odd."

Boromir glanced at Aragorn. "What?"

"It's odd." Aragorn looked back, his brow furrowed. "That Merry should hold to the curse until you spoke." He frowned. "Or perhaps it's not odd at all."

Boromir felt his face warm. "Not odd, no. Though it requires understanding."

Aragorn smiled at that, exhausted but still Strider under all his care. "Indeed." He glanced back, and as Gandalf caught them up he sighed. "But perhaps understanding it isn't as hard as you think."


	29. Chapter 29

Merry looked from the door as it shut to his cousin's beaming face. He moved before he could fight it, pulling Pip to him and hugging him, hard. "I thought such terrible things as we were coming here."

"Oh, Merry." Pip's arms circled him and held him tight. "You've become so dark in your mind on this journey."

"I don't want to. I don't like who I was days ago. I felt grim and sad and hard, and I didn't like it. But I missed you, and I missed..."

"You missed Boromir. You don't have to be scared of saying it. I know you still adore me, even if he has your love as well." Pip pulled back and smiled.

Merry smiled back after a moment. "Thank you."

"Well, why thank me? I'm happy for you. Especially now that I know he loves you back."

Merry's face heated. "Do you think so? He cares for me, but..."

Pippin's smile faded. He took Merry's hand again, holding it tightly. "We thought you were dead when we found you. He was...if you had seen him then, you'd be certain."

Merry frowned. "Oh." But the smile returned a moment later. "Oh. I'm sorry I caused either of you worry, but...Pip, does he really love me back?"

Pippin laughed. "You're hardly a proper hobbit at all anymore! You've had food and drink and all you could want offered to you, and you're going on about love."

Merry dropped back against the pillow, sighing. "I am horribly tired. I feel as though a weight were on me, making everything just a little bit heavier. But food and even a pipe would be lovely."

Pip grinned. "That's more like it." He jumped off the bed. "I'll go demand things for the hero."


	30. Chapter 30

He moved into the room and shut the door behind him, sighing to himself heavily. The requirements for a steward after a tremendous battle were greater than he'd imagined, and he was fairly sure that he was absolutely bad at the job. He had voices coming at him from all sides, advisors of his fathers, soldiers who knew Boromir through years of fighting side by side. The opinions, always given and from them at least usually looked for, of the Fellowship itself. There wasn't enough time in a day to do all that had to be done, and Boromir was happy to delegate most of the tasks to those who knew better.

Then again, he thought, maybe that was the primary job of a leader - knowing whom best to delegate authority to.

Still, all in all it was a tiring business, complicated and scattered. He wasn't settling in well, but there wasn't time to dwell on it. There wasn't really time for anything.

And so, this visit. This stop in a dark corner room of the healing house, hoping for a little time to rest and gather himself.

The room was quiet and still, and he sighed with relief at the silence. His shoulders lost their rigidity as he sighed, moving into the room and over to the small bed. He sat in the chair left for the visitor who never left the room - the one who was even now curled on the bed beside the sleeping patient. They both breathed heavy and even in sleep. Both together, he saw with a smile, were about the mass one man might be under the cover.

They were wrapped close, and something in him sparked a bit uncertainly. Maybe jealousy, he mused. A silly thought, but he looked at the two heads leaning against each other, so similar, and for a moment he did let himself envy it. Not that Pippin had Merry there so close, but that he was small enough and like him enough not to think twice about it.

He tried to imagine himself there with them, a great, hulking, ungentle body alongside those two small forms. It seemed ridiculous.

Pippin looked up suddenly, blinking tired eyes. He smiled. "Boromir," he said softly. "He was waiting up for you, but Gandalf told us you were far too busy to see us again today."

Boromir sighed. "Unfortunately, he was right. It's tomorrow." He sat down at the edge of the bed, on Merry's side, and looked down at him for a long, quiet moment. "How is he?"

"Like an old man. He's tired and sore and he's still a bit odd from that curse, I guess. And he missed you." Pippin sat up slowly, carefully pulling free from Merry and stretched himself. "But he understands, so he says. Honestly, I think he wants his Gondor soldier back. The one who sat with us at fireside and talked about his city and tried to teach us how to hold a blade properly."

Boromir laughed softly, but it was wistful. "I'm going to quickly begin missing that soldier myself." His hand came up and almost unconsciously he touched a cheek, letting go of some subtle tension when he felt the skin warm and alive.

But he became aware of Pippin again, watching him closely, and he pulled his hand back and almost blushed.

Pippin laughed, but there was something restrained about the sound. "I told Merry you cared for him. He half believes it now."

Boromir opened his mouth to answer, but shut it again.

Pippin studied him. "I don't guess it really matters though, does it?"

Boromir looked back at him.

"Merry is lost in his relief that you weren't killed. It's the second time he's convinced himself you were dead when you weren't, and the second time hurt as badly as the first. He's not thinking of bigger things, and I'm glad he's not yet. But they're still there whether he realizes it or not."

Boromir didn't want to think of it either.

"You're going to hurt him terribly, you know. He thinks fanciful things, and that's in our nature. But we're also practical about a lot of things. I'm one of the worst for fanciful thinking, except where he is concerned. This journey has made me practically serious where he's concerned. He on the other hand is solemn too often, but with you he's become fanciful." He sighed, looking back at his cousin. His voice was soft but he spoke without much fear of waking Merry.

Indeed, he was too pale where he lay, too still in sleep. The effects of the black breath still hung on him, Pippin was right about that. Boromir frowned. "He's made me more fanciful than I've ever been, so I suppose it's right I returned the favor."

"You're going to hurt him terribly when this all ends and he must go home."

Boromir shook his head, more from an attempt to drive the words away than a denial of their truth. He didn't want to think about it.

"He believes in miracles. He was telling me so. He's got his heart set on one more." Pippin looked across Merry at him, as solemn as Boromir had ever seen the little hobbit. "You may think that light-hearted creatures like us must love lightly. It's not true."

"I don't think anything like that," Boromir answered, almost annoyed. He didn't want to talk about this. He and Merry hadn't had five minutes together since they were first separated, and he didn't want to think of anything until he had at least a little while with Merry. "I think the future's too uncertain to bother worrying about it. If we have time now we ought to do what we want without worrying."

Pippin sighed. "Maybe. But you can't even give him now, really. You're steward, my lord." He added the title with a faint smile, nothing mean-spirited.

Boromir frowned. It was true. He was taking his rest here, and once it was done there would be no more time. He would have to lead his country and gather with Aragorn and Gandalf and Eomer and decide where the course of this war had to take them. The fighting wasn't done. Time was drawing short.

"You should talk to him. Don't let him go on and fight under false pretenses."

"Pippin, you're serious indeed where Merry is concerned. I can't say it makes me happy to see."

Pippin shrugged, a hand stroking Merry's arm even as his attention focused on Boromir. "That's because it's me that will be left to tend him when it's all done and you're here on your throne and he's sent back to the Shire."

"I would never send him back," Boromir started, then sighed. "You may be right."

Pippin slid off the bed, straightening his disheveled livery and uniform. He moved around the bed slowly, and with a sigh went to the door. "Don't leave him with false hope. It's dishonest, and Merry says you despise dishonesty. "

Boromir tensed at that. It was dishonest indeed. If they truly had no chance then best be done now.

He heard the soft sound of the door shutting, and his gaze fell from Merry to the mattress beneath them. Idly he touched Merry's hand, and smiled at the warmth there. He was pale still but he wasn't lost as he had been.

The silence settled in to the room, and he felt himself releasing tension he'd carried all night and into the day. Pippin was right, and it hurt to think about. When Merry woke up Boromir would have to use the first time they had alone together to tell him they had to let go of foolish dreams. It would hurt them both to talk about it. He wanted rest, and instead there was only more grief in store.

How long he sat there before Merry stirred he didn't know. He was lost in thoughts, trying not to think of plans for the future but unable to avoid it. He could hide in a room and shut the door against reality, but he couldn't forget it.

But Merry did stir, his brow furrowing and mumbled noises coming from a troubled little mouth. Boromir focused on him, taking his hand and watching his face. He wanted to be sure to catch that moment - the lovely moment when Merry opened his eyes and saw him sitting there. It always seemed to bring such joy to Merry to see him, and that in turn gave Boromir warmth all over. He wasn't gentle and soft, but he felt there was something to the idea of having someone there who always seemed thrilled to see you.

Merry's eyes opened after a moment of restless stirring. His fingers tightened in Boromir's hand, then relaxed. He blinked up at him and there it was, the warm happiness. It lit his pale face and made his eyes soften. He smiled and his fingers tightened to squeeze his hand. "Hullo."

Boromir smiled uncontrollably back at him. "Good morning. You've slept a long time. Are you feeling better?"

"I feel fine," Merry answered, but he tried to sit up and it made him pale again, and Boromir reached out to help him, bringing him closer to the hobbit. Not a hardship. "I feel sore," he amended with a sheepish smile. "But not as if people ought to be panicking over me the way Pip seems to be doing." He looked around.

"He left. He wanted to give us time alone, I think." Boromir nodded towards the door.

Merry grinned. "Good for him."

"He says we ought to talk about something." Boromir's smile lost some strength.

Merry laughed. "He told me the same. He said I was laboring under a misapprehension about you."

Boromir hesitated. "He said the same to me. He said I ought to correct you."

Merry blushed, confusing Boromir. He smiled almost shyly, dropping his gaze to their hands. "Only if you want to."

"I don't," Boromir said with a sigh.

Merry looked up again instantly, his brow furrowing. "You don't?"

"No. I know it's foolish not to, but I want to enjoy the time we've got."

"I wonder if we're not misunderstanding two different things about each other," Merry said with a slight smile. "Unless you think we wouldn't enjoy ourselves if you admitted you did care something for me."

"What?" Boromir straightened, and his other hand wrapped itself around their joined hands. "No, no, if you're confused about that then you mustn't be a moment longer. I care deeply for you, Merry. I would..." What would he do? He sighed. "Faramir says he longs for love the way I've found it. And he knows me better than I know myself. I must love you."

Merry's little smile grew, then faded, and then grew again, as if he couldn't decide how to feel. "Pip thought as much," he said, his voice soft. "I wasn't so sure. Not because I doubted you, but because...I'm so small." He looked at their hands, his own engulfed utterly by Boromir's large fingers. "Different," he amended. "I knew you were so aware of it..."

"I am," Boromir said quietly. "But somewhere along the line it became so unimportant I stopped caring. I can't ignore what I'm feeling because the one I feel it for has little hands."

Merry smiled at that, and his face glowed as he looked at Boromir. It made Boromir's heart stutter to see such simple, uncomplicated joy. Uncomplicated, though, was the last thing this was.

"You know I love you as well, of course," Merry said suddenly, making Boromir wince.

He nodded and gripped Merry's hand. "That is what Pip thinks I ought to talk to you about. He says I'm being dishonest."

"You?" Merry laughed, sitting up with a sudden ease, as if the words were lifting weight and soreness from him. "Dishonest? He ought to know better."

"Well, perhaps it's not really dishonest if I'm fooling myself as well as you."

"You're not fooling anyone. After all this fighting and horror we ought to be clear enough about how we feel."

"No." Boromir sighed. "It isn't how I feel that's in question. It's what we're to do with those feelings."

"Do?" Merry rose to his knees, putting himself at eye level with Boromir. Their fingers curled together between them. "You don't have to do anything with it. It just is."

"It's not that easy. I'm a steward now. The first-born son of a long line. Our legacy is more important than my feelings."

"Your legacy? You think somehow you won't be a decent Steward with a little hobbit dangling from your arm?"

Boromir laughed uncontrollably, and his eyes softened as he looked at Merry. "No. But I do think that one of my duties as Steward is to have children. Sons to take the title from me when I am dead."

"Oh." Merry sat back on his legs, frowning thoughtfully. "Well. That's bit of a dilemma, yes."

"More than a bit of one. It's of such importance to have sons to carry the name on that father introduced me to women almost as soon as he introduced me to the sword."

Merry sat back, his face paler. He swayed a bit, and Boromir reached for him.

"Lay down. Merry. You shouldn't be sitting up at all."

"I wanted..." Merry sighed and lay himself back on the pillow, frowning up at Boromir. "I guess I don't like always having to look up at you. It makes me aware of things."

Boromir smiled despite himself. "Well. I snuck here when I was supposed to be resting. So I ought to rest." He stretched himself out on the bed, lying beside Merry on his side.

Merry smiled and rolled to his side, and they were evenly matched then, at least their gazes were.

Boromir felt his face warm a bit. The pillow was soft and giving to help the patients recover, and he felt suddenly stirringly intimate, Merry's breath puffing against his skin. He reached up and touched the soft flesh of his cheek. It was becoming a favorite gesture, he thought to himself with a smile.

Merry smiled back against his hand. "Well then. What were we talking about? I've forgotten."

Boromir chuckled. "I think I've almost managed to forget as well."

"Ah, right. I remember." Merry sighed, and it brushed warm over Boromir's face. "It seems so strange to suddenly be thinking of propriety and position and that sort of thing. It was all much easier when all there was to worry about was orcs and evil."

Boromir laughed quietly. "Indeed."

"And I can't help but think it shouldn't matter. We're dealing with life and death and good and evil, and what are rules and regulations beside those? Love can hold up in front of them, and duty. But you'll do your duty and none could do it better. If you're a good Steward with family around you what should it matter if you have no children? Couldn't your brother...?"

Boromir frowned, thoughtful. "It's not the same. Faramir is the younger son."

"Theoden has died, and he has given Rohan to Eomer. I can't help but think it won't suffer much for being in his hands. He is the king's family, even if he's not his son."

Boromir blinked at that. "That's true, isn't it?"

Merry nodded against the pillow, his eyes darker than usual as he gazed at Boromir. "Of course. Blood is blood. We know it in the Shire. We love cousins as much as brothers. Why should men be different?"

"You make me almost believe it's possible."

Merry reached up to him, and he copied Boromir's gesture. His fingers stroked lightly down Boromir's cheek and lay against his jaw. "Believe, then. There's still war and death to deal with, and what's the harm of facing it with a pure and good sort of belief in love?"

Boromir's hand moved, resting over Merry's where it lay against his face. He felt a stirring inside him, a warmth in his chest. Why not? There was no one to order him to marry some woman. No one but Aragorn, in time, and Aragorn would not. Faramir would marry, and through him would pass the wisdom of the Numenoreans, and none would have better heirs. Not Boromir, ungentle and unwise soldier.

Merry smiled in the pause that fell. His thumb brushed back and forth, light and gentle, over Boromir's jaw. "You go by your instincts, you told me once. As a soldier you listen to your heart. Listen to it now. If it says to walk away from me and find a woman and have sons, then I would never try to stop you. I'll come visit and play with them as tots and teach them proper eating habits. Seven meals a day with lots of time for snacks." He smiled. "Listen to your heart, Boromir. It could never steer you wrong. If you make a mistake in its name, then it's the best mistake you could make. An honest mistake, at least, which I suppose you'd find better than a dishonest duty done."

"You're so very wise, Merry. I want to believe it's wisdom, at least, and it seems like you pulled the thoughts from my own heart and told them to me so my head would hear them."

Merry's eyes were glowing. "Then do what you have to, and don't worry about making me unhappy. You never could, as long as you live."

"Listen to my heart, then? Those are your instructions?"

Merry nodded, his cheeks flushed. There wasn't a hint of nervousness in him.

Boromir was quick to show him that his faith was well placed. He only had to lean in a little bit, tilt his head up, and they were together, mouths brushing gently. The whisper of a sigh brushed across his mouth and cheeks, and Boromir smiled into the kiss.

The hand against his jaw moved back, sliding into locks of hair. Boromir echoed the gesture, sliding his fingers through soft curls before resting his palm against the back of Merry's neck. It was easy to hold him there, not only because of how large his hand was against the hobbit, but because Merry showed no intention of ever wanting to pull away again.

Boromir had come for a rest, and what he found was rejuvenation that had nothing to do with sleep. Whatever tension had been in him drifted away, and the soft touch of warm lips against his mouth seemed to drain doubt and apprehension out of him.

He pulled back to catch a breath, and Merry's eyes slid open to look at him. Grey eyes glowed brightly, and his lips were pink and full, and Boromir made a soft sound in the back of his throat and moved in again instantly, locking them together.

Merry chuckled against his mouth, and slid his whole body in closer. Boromir felt a warmth suddenly that had nothing to do with simple emotional joy. He pushed himself more deeply into the kiss, sliding his hand down to Merry's back. He was rewarded with the solid warmth of him pressing closer.

Merry's arms found him, stroking down his chest and grasping his shirt. A soft groan came from Boromir and vanished into Merry's mouth, and the hobbit echoed the noise quietly.

Boromir pulled back, his hand still stroking, up and down, along the curve of Merry's back. "I don't know how you do it," he said in a low rasp. "I've been kissed by women all my life, but this heat...I don't know where it comes from."

Merry's face had the pink flush of health in it. He laughed breathily, and his eyes held wonder. "Maybe because you didn't love those women."

"I think you're right." Boromir indulged in his favorite gesture, lifting his hand to slide down the warm, soft curve of a rounded cheek. "And those women did not love me."

"I don't know," Merry raised a hand to lay over his. "I doubt anyone could kiss you and not love you."

Boromir smiled against the pillow. "You are the first one, Merry, who has said things like that so that I actually believed they might be true."

Merry's eyes shut heavily, but his smile stayed. "Good. You're a good man, Boromir. Better than any I've met. Except perhaps Aragorn, but he would tie you, not best you. Not in that. You deserve to know it." His eyes opened again.

Boromir's fingers rose and dusted over light brown eyebrows. "You're tired. You ought to sleep."

Merry nodded. "You won't be here when I wake up. Pippin says I sleep for terrible lengths of time now."

Boromir sighed. "No, I probably won't. But that's still a ways away, and for now I was sent to rest so I will sleep beside you."

Merry curled in to him instantly, warming down his side. "I'll sleep good knowing that." His voice was already thick and slower.

"Go to sleep, Merry." Boromir moved to lay on his back, a hand coming around Merry to hold him close. Merry didn't need holding - he shifted with Boromir so as not to lose contact for an instant. He lay his head on Boromir's shoulder and smiled, eyes still closed.

Boromir stroked a gentle hand down his back, soothing. His own brave, heroic, wounded little hobbit. He cocked his head to look down at the curly brown hair pillowed against him, and he smiled to himself.

When his eyes lifted from Merry he saw the door to the room was open, and standing there was Pippin Took. Their eyes met across the small room, and Pip frowned.

Boromir looked away from him. Somehow, talking to Merry, it had seemed so foolish to end any chance between them because of unknowns. He didn't want that unusual optimism to fade in the glare of disapproval from Pippin. His hand tightened around Merry, and his head dropped, his cheek resting against soft curls.

The door closed, and light footsteps padded to the bed. Boromir felt eyes on him, but his own eyes were closed and he kept them that way stubbornly.

But a light hand appeared on his arm, the one around Merry, and a small sigh sounded. "If it's because you love him, I can't fault you for that."

Boromir opened his eyes and watched Pippin curl up on the bed on the other side of his cousin.


	31. Chapter 31

"We're leaving."

The words sounded like they were part of an ongoing conversation, but those words were the first things Merry heard, and he kept his eyes screwed shut against the bad dream trying to sneak in.

"When? Going where? I thought Minis Tirith was the end of it!" Pippin was beside him, sounding alarmed. Merry curled closer to him to ward off the words.

"We've got to make a last march. The war isn't over yet." That was Boromir again, moving around the room restlessly.

Then a new voice. Aragorn. "Youshould go with us, Pippin. Hobbits deserve to have a representative there. But we won't press you to come, we only offer you a place. This last fight is a foolish, dangerous endeavor."

"Then why go?" Pip asked just as Merry thought the words to himself.

"For Frodo," Gandalf spoke, and Merry wondered how many had come into his room without his hearing. How could he have missed all this and yet Boromir's words, _we're going_, had come through so clear. "We're making ourselves a diversion to give Frodo hope for success. It is very likely that we will be killed, Peregrin Took. Think seriously before you agree to this, but think quickly."

"Is all the fellowship going?"

"All that are left. We will ride in the front lines. You will ride with Gandalfif you choose to go. Legolas will carry Gimli. Aragorn and Boromir, and Eomer of Rohan, will be with us, leading the armies of Gondor and Rohan."

"Shouldn't one of you stay behind? Aragorn or Boromir? The city still needs a leader."

"My brother, Faramir, is injured but fit enough to act in my name."

Merry's eyes squeezed tighter shut and he buried his face in Pippin's shirt. The warm comfort of Pippin's hand moved through his curls, trying to soothe him as if he knew Merry was awake.

"What about Merry?" Pip asked over his head.

"In a day's time, or two, Merry will be fit to walk about the house. Surely you can see he is too weak to ride." That was Aragorn, always so quiet and sad and firm.

"But to leave him here. " Pip's hand never stopped its slow petting. "To leave him alone? To ride to our deaths?"

"Our deaths are far from certain. Likely, perhaps, but there is always hope. Now come, Pippin, tell us what you intend."

Merry's hand clutched at Pip's shirt.

"It's hard," Pippin said miserably above him. "To leave him behind. I don't think he should like to lose...to lose us again."

"Then stay with him," Aragorn answered gently. "None will think badly of you."

"But if this is to be a great showing at the gates of Mordor itself, maybe there ought to be a hobbit there to see it." Pippin spoke unsurely.

Merry screwed his eyes shut, and with an inaudible sob he loosened his grip on Pip. He let him go.

Pip spoke a moment later, sad. "I'll go. But must we leave so soon? Merry will need seeing to."

"An hour, Peregrin Took. No more. We've delayed in debate for too long already."

There were noises beyond him, and footsteps, and the door began to close. But it stopped and opened again, and a set of footsteps returned.

"I have no time," came the voice of Boromir. "Tell him I'll be back, if it's possible. Tell him..." He stopped, and a moment later the door closed.

I love you too, Merry thought to himself miserably.

"Merry. They're gone."

Unsurprised at Pip's perception, Merry raised wet eyes and clutched at his shirt again. "It isn't fair."

"Are you very angry with me?" Pip looked down at him, and all the time his hand petted.

Merry sniffled and shook his head. "Angry I can't come. Angry it has to be done at all. I just want time, that's all."

"I'm sorry. We'll be back. Boromir's right to promise it. We'll be back the moment we can get here."

"If you can get here at all." Merry's eyes shut and he dropped his head against Pippin and trembled.


	32. Chapter 32

Boromir took a long look up at his city, at the mountain. Signs of life flickered from every level, seen in the form of people on the walls repairing damage. Already the city was beginning to recover. He looked on it for a long moment, solemn and proud, before he turned to watch the preparations of the massive army.

"We're not enough." Aragorn came up beside him, looking drained as he nodded towards the preparations. "Not nearly."

"Every man who walks this earth couldn't stand up to the numbers of beasts Sauron has waiting for us. But I thought we weren't going to win a fight."

"It would still be nice to think we had the option of winning." Aragorn glanced at him, and smiled wryly.

After a moment Boromir sighed. "I suppose Frodo is our option. "

"Yes." Aragorn turned to face him suddenly. "Boromir. I owe you an apology."

Boromir turned to him. "An apology? For what?"

"I doubted you."

"Ah." Boromir smiled. That was no secret. "You showed it plainly."

"And for that too I apologize. I did not hold most men high in my thoughts when this journey began. Outside of my Rangers the men I meet most often are loud and dumb and vulgar. They are also weak. Proud. Selfish." He stopped himself. "I had heard that Denethor was a man without reason and that Theoden was a doddering old fool. My faith in my own people was low. Too low."

Boromir nodded. That also was no secret.

"I was suspicious of you, and it grew worse as the journey went on."

"It was justified," Boromir said, thinking of a forest clearing and the defiant, terrified eyes of Frodo Baggins.

"No. I held you at a distance as I saw you slip towards temptation, when I could have helped you." Aragorn frowned, his dark eyes pensive. "You have been my strongest ally through this entire journey, and you have proven yourself again and again. If once you faltered, it was no fault of your own, and you've since made up for it more than anyone could hope to ask for." He met Boromir's eye. "When we return to Minis Tirith, if I am found worthy and crowned as king, I should take up the crown without fear, without apprehension, knowing that I have such a Steward at my side."

Boromir straightened, feeling pride now in himself to match his pride in his city. "I will see that day come, Aragorn. I will call you lord and give you my country without hesitation."

Aragorn clasped his arm, and for a moment they stood as close as brothers, so similar and yet complimentary in all their differences.

And then the horns began to sound, and it was time to ride.


	33. Chapter 33

Merry had thought that once they had ridden away he would be better off in his small corner room, ignoring the world and being overlooked, yet again, by the world in turn. Aside from the healers who came and went he thought he should want no visitors, just silence and time to fester in his fears.

But in a day's time he had to admit that being afraid and miserable was a terribly boring way to live.

Still, there wasn't much for it. He couldn't walk very far without feeling tired and light-headed, and there was no one left to visit him. None of his friends remained.

But on the third day after the armies had marched away and left the city in nervous silence, there was a knock on Merry's door, and a face that was almost familiar peered in at him.

Grey eyes, fair hair, sturdy and tall. Like Boromir, but not. The man entered when he saw Merry awake. "Master halfling, are you fit for company?"

Merry sat up. He was grouchy and weak but he'd never turn away someone to talk to. Not after three days of silence. "Fit enough, so long as no feats are expected of me."

The man smiled, and there he was like Boromir as well, but obviously younger and without some of Boromir's cares. He moved in and shut the door behind, and he was shuffling oddly, a hand at his stomach as he came in.

Hurt, Merry realized. A patient as well. And then he knew. "You're Faramir!"

The man nodded, sitting with a sigh on the chair beside Merry's bed that had held Pippin for so long. "And you're Meriadoc, Esquire of Rohan."

"No. Just Merry, accessory of war now retired, it seems."

Faramir smiled. "You wish you could have gone?"

"Of course. Everyone I care for is out there."

"Then perhaps you should find friends here, and through them recover your strength until your old friends return." Faramir's eyes were on him, gentle and searching. "You have one in me already, if you'll have me. I owe you my life."

Merry blushed. "I didn't do anything."

"Yet here I am, recovering instead of buried." Faramir leaned in, resting a hand on the bed. "And even had you not come to my rescue on the field, I would still owe you. Boromir has told me you saved him as well, in a very different way."

Merry felt himself smile slightly despite his determination to stay grieved. "Boromir is stronger than he realizes. I doubt I changed the course of anything."

"I don't doubt it. I have my brother's word that you did." Faramir searched him, his eyes sharp and wise. "Boromir is strong. He has been called for years the greatest man in Gondor, and I wouldn't dispute that for a moment. He is strong also in that he knows where his weaknesses are, and doesn't deceive himself about them. He says he was almost defeated, but for you."

Merry's eyes went distant, thinking of Boromir, of one dark day in a wood before an attack of orcs had changed everything. His few words hadn't been enough to alter the course of any fate, he knew. But that Boromir looked back on it and held it with such importance warmed him. "Whatever I did I did for selfish reasons. It's not right to thank me."

Faramir laughed at that, gently. "Saving someone you care about because you don't want to lose them is the best kind of selfishness."

Merry felt his cheeks pinking again. Outside of Pippin he'd spoken of his feelings for Boromir to no one. Not the Fellowship, not anyone. Faramir was a soldier, and a brother, and Merry didn't think it was possible he would simply understand and let be.

But he also couldn't deny the basic truth of it. "I do care for him. I care for everyone we traveled with."

Faramir's hand moved to Merry's arm, resting for a moment. "Don't fear me, Master Merry. Say only what you want to say, but don't say less than you want because of fear. I know my brother loves you."

Merry looked up instantly, his eyes wide, his mouth open. "You know?"

"Of course. Boromir told me himself how he felt, though I confess to having pried some of it from him. My curiosity, you know. My father used to call it an evil side effect that came from studying with wizards."

Merry looked at the young man in wonder.

Faramir smiled, and his face was nothing but kind. "There is nothing you need hide from me. Perhaps you don't love him in return, though I'm convinced that's not the case. Or perhaps you think I will fall back on the regulations of the stewardship and disapprove?"

"That's the most likely," Merry answered with a faint smile. He had spent perhaps ten minutes with Faramir but he already knew he would grow to adore the man. Sharp he was, but kind and strong. "Boromir fears that as well. The regulations."

"I won't lie and say it isn't a legitimate concern," Faramir answered with a sigh. "But from Boromir, I can't help but think a solution will be found that satisfies everyone."

"And what about you?" Merry studied him with open curiosity. "Are you married?"

"Married? No." Faramir smiled, and then Merry saw in surprise that his cheeks flushed slightly pink. "But you hit close to the reason why I came to visit you."

"Oh?" Merry raised his eyebrows, smiling.

Faramir cleared his throat. "I was told that you rode here on the horse of the Lady Eowyn."

Merry laughed. "I see!"

Faramir chuckled as well, cheeks pink but eyes steady on him. "Well, you can mock me if you like, as long as you follow it with information."

"Mock you? Oh, no! I'm thinking of the best way to talk you up to her." Merry grinned.

Faramir laughed.


	34. Chapter 34

The battle was as dark, as hopeless, as their worst thoughts had dreamed it might be. Surrounded by enemies at all sides, it wasn't a fight to escape, to live through. It was a fight fought for its own sake. Diversion, distraction. They only fought to keep the enemy fighting long enough that others out in the land beyond might have time to accomplish something great.

He tried his best to keep his eye on Pip - the smallest and weakest shouldn't have even been there, much less fighting on his own. But battle was what it was, and before long Pip was out of his sight and he was too busy trying to stay alive to search the little hobbit out.

He got a wicked blade slice in his arm, and a quick, hasty movement that bent his body nearly backwards had reopened the healing wound in his side. A rake of black fingernails on his face was a token from his slaughter of a large, fierce Uruk.

The screams and cries from all over the field spoke of the inevitable defeat to come. More and more men joined the ranks of wounded and dead, and more uruks and orcs filled in the places they left. Boromir fought, hacking at every black limb that came his way, and he let go of hope for survival and the future.

He had two reasons not to mourn this last battle - he had left the two people he cared for most in safety, and though their end might follow soon at least they wouldn't die at the gates of the black land itself. They would maybe have time to mourn for him, at least a little.

He fought all the harder for knowing he wouldn't last out the day. It gave him a feeling, oddly, of invulnerability. He didn't tire, he didn't fear. He would spend the rest of his life in battle, killing, and he'd make sure that life wasn't wasted, even if it was only a few minutes longer. He was the Steward of Gondor, the leader of his land, and he would die only when a mountain of his enemies had died around him.

But around him, all of the sudden, with nothing he could point to and call a reason...the enemy simply stopped. The fighting orcs, the uruks, and the enormous mountain trolls, all stumbled to a halt and stood blinking around them stupidly. Many were cut down where they stood by energized soldiers not willing to waste the reprieve.

Boromir caught his breath, though, and looked around for the companions he had lost. He saw Gandalf easily enough, still glowing white through a stained robe. Pip was next, hacking away at an enormous troll who had frozen with the hobbit in his grasp.

Boromir moved to him instantly, and though he moved fast he was still not fast enough to escape the notice of a troll. But the troll was dumb with whatever was stunning their enemies, even when Boromir lifted his sword and sliced a hacking blow on his arm. The troll made a noise, a low sound of distress and pain, and Pippin fell gasping to the ground. Boromir hefted him up and crouched. "Are you alright?"

Pippin nodded shakily, pale but staying on his feet. "What's happening?"

"I don't know." Boromir straightened and looked around, but in that instant the scene around them changed again, and the frozen, stunned bodies of their enemies reanimated. But the attack didn't resume. The beasts were scattered suddenly, shouting and panicked as if they had just lost a war Boromir hadn't seen being fought.

It was Aragorn who made him realize. The future king of Gondor hefted a bloodstained sword in the air, and let out a scream of triumph. In that scream was the name Frodo.

Boromir breathed in, and as others took up the cry he gave it himself, the name wrenching joyously from his throat as his shoulders loosed a long-held weight and he realized what was done.

"Frodo?" Pippin grasped at his arm, staring around them as some fighting resumed. The men were not generous in their victory, and the panicking orcs were struck down if they didn't run fast enough. "Frodo!"

"He's done it! He's succeeded!" Boromir hefted the hobbit suddenly, letting out another cry of victory. Elation filled him and he lofted Pippin high before letting him get his feet again. "Frodo!"

Pippin laughed, wonder in his face, and he held up his own small sword and echoed the cry. "Frodo!"

Boromir laughed as he lunged at an orc that ran too close and struck the beast down. He laughed and cried out and called the name of that amazing hobbit who had somehow achieved the impossible.

And he called, while his screams were just a small part of a huge noise, for Merry, for the one he wished most was there to share the victory with him.


	35. Chapter 35

Merry rested his chin against his fist, sighing as he looked out the window.

He had hoped that Faramir would return to him, and that his boredom would be lessened by the visits. But the scene out the window showed him why he hadn't been visited for days.

Eowyn and Faramir looked stunning together, of course, even just walking side by side in the garden. Fair and strong, both of them. Alike in many ways. Tall and straight and proud and beautiful. Merry hoped for both of their sakes that things worked out for them. Faramir seemed to be so taken with her, and Eowyn needed a good man like he was to lessen her grimness. It was right in too many ways, and he sent them good thoughts even as he couldn't help but resent their ignoring him.

Well, he wasn't important to them, of course. Silly to think so. He had been a burden on her saddle, and he was just a friend of his brother. They had no obligation to come see him. Besides, they were taken with each other, or so it seemed, and he knew well how easy it was to get single-minded when love appeared in a person's heart.

"Master Brandybuck?"

He turned, smiling wanly at the healer. "I feel much better," he answered before the usual question could be asked. "I'd like to take a walk outside, if you think I can."

The man smiled. He had a kind face, Merry had thought from the start. "For an hour, later today. First I'd like you to eat."

Merry nodded, turning from the window. "How are things outside? Is there any word?"

"None. People are hopeful. More than they have been for some time. I'd like to think that means something. Now come, back to your bed to eat."

Merry obeyed, with enough reluctance to imagine Pippin saying disapproving things. That, at least, made him smile.

He was picking at the food that had been brought to him when he heard sounds from outside his door. Louder than the usual hum of activity in the busy houses of healing - there was an excitement in the air.

He pushed the tray of food aside and got to his feet, moving to the door. Peering out, he didn't see anything clear. People talking, walking quickly down the corridors. His brow furrowed and he moved out of his room, wondering where the healers had gone.

It was Faramir himself who found Merry, running up from the garden with Eowyn at his side. His face was jubilant, and Merry felt a rush of hope.

"Merry!" It was Eowyn who called for him. "A messenger has arrived!"

"And?" Merry took a step towards them, but faltered.

They came to him, though, and Faramir beamed at him. "And we have victory! Unbelievable victory! Sauron has been destroyed, and Frodo has been found! The armies are encamped, and will begin the journey back in days!"

Merry drew in a faint breath, wanting to be elated but waiting for yet more news. "And?"

Faramir grinned in understanding. "Eomer has sent word that he wants his sister to join him. And Boromir and your Fellowship request the presence of Master Meriadoc."

Merry let out his breath, his face transforming slowly into the same beaming joy the two people in front of him held.

Eowyn laughed and crouched, hugging him close. "Merry, isn't it wonderful?"

Merry hugged back, beaming over her shoulder at Faramir. "When do we leave?"

She pulled back at that. "You will go with healers and supplies in the morning." She glanced back at Faramir, and a look passed between them. "I won't be going. I will see them when they return."

Merry could smile honestly then, because he could be happy for them without a shadow of selfishness. His friends were alive, and Boromir asked for him. He laughed aloud. "I'm very glad to be denied your presence, then. I think you'll be more appreciated here."

"She will indeed." Faramir touched her arm as she stood up straight again, and she smiled at him.

Merry beamed.


End file.
